


Death's Favored Daughter Book Two: Shadow Slayers

by windingwarpath



Series: Death's Favored Daughter [4]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Forgotten Realms
Genre: Baldur's Gate 1 characters in Baldur's Gate 2, Crime Drama, Epic, Multi, Raunchyness, Romance, Sexual Content, Swasbuckling, serial, sword and sorcery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-03-08 21:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 84,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13466481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windingwarpath/pseuds/windingwarpath
Summary: Two sets of adventurers roll into Athkatla, one at noon and the other in the dead of night, and the city will never be the same afterwards. Bhaalspawn, ya know? Baldur's Gate 2 with a whole lot of twists.





	1. Entrances

**Author's Note:**

> So! Ahem. Here we are: the sequel to my massive Baldur's Gate 1 fic Death's Favored Daughter! This fic covers Baldur's Gate 2.
> 
> If you're coming in new, I don't think there's any need to read the first fic, since it mostly follows the plot of the first game with a few key differences. That being said, this fic will go way off the rails immediately and in a lot of ways, some of them obvious from the opening page. For instance the story opens with a very unconventional set of parties entering the city of Athkatla of their own free will, one led by Imoen and one by my [Charname], with quite a few Baldur's Gate 1 characters and even some companions who aren't usually available as party members along for the ride. The other minor difference here is that Imoen already learned that she's a Bhaalspawn: she learned that from Gorion's letter, since he was nice enough to do that and her being a Bhaalspawn isn't a sudden retcon here.
> 
> I'm also totally ignoring Siege of Dragonspear, since I haven't played it and already came up with my elaborate headcannon of how the characters ended up heading for Athkatla.
> 
> And one major question readers will probably have: who the heck are Kirian, Durlyle, and Delainy? They're peripheral characters from the first game who ended up as party members here, for reasons that will be revealed over the course of the story. Kirian is the leader of a rival adventuring group who taunts you at one point in Baldur's Gate 1 (and who a lot of players probably ended up murdering), and for elaborate reasons (again: that will be explained) Imoen ended up adopting her on the way to Durlag's Tower after freeing her from petrification.
> 
> Durlyle and Delainy are shaman-like characters (and werewolves) from the Isle of Balduran, who Ashura picked up on her adventure there. For more details about them check out my novella Isle of Beasts. 
> 
> Rated M for sexual content and pervasive raunchiness early on, and probably disturbing content later (Irenicus, you know?) And of course there's cursing and violence aplenty here, and possibly some major character deaths later as well, though the tone of this is mostly meant to be that of a pulpy adventure story.
> 
> Please review if you can. I'm also hoping that the format of the early part of this fic works, and isn't too confusing. I contemplated arranging the scenes all in chronological order, but skipping back and forth between two separate timelines (which will eventually converge) just felt like more fun. It will be clearly labeled when there's a big skip between times and perspectives.
> 
> Anyway, on with the story:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our dramatis personae are introduced.

**Part One - At Play in the City of Coin**

_"All great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous masks, in order to inscribe themselves on the hearts of humanity." -_ Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

_"At the sight the lad's head filled up with dreams:_  
_Of swords and dragons and well-earned crowns_  
_But the sane folk all hid and bolted their doors_  
_When the heroes strode into town"_  
-Tethmurra "Lady Bard" Starmar, _The Foolish Farmboy_

Mirtul 18 1369 D.R.

The adventurers rolled in with the tide of the midday traffic, as motley a band as Brus had ever seen. Heads high and striding sure, they passed beneath the marble arch of Athkatla's gates amid ambling oxcarts and tomato wagons, standing out from the sunbaked greengrocers and merchants, and not _just_ because they wore such colorful garb. Nosir!

In the lead walked a short, spritely girl, dressed all in pastels (faded violet, soft pink, sky blue) and leather. The hood of her cloak was peeled back, displaying a round, suntanned face and chin-length hair that she'd dyed an audacious shade of pink. Youthful looking, though a prominent dueling scar ran down her left eyebrow and cheek, so she'd maybe seen some interesting things in that short life of hers. Seemed a bit of a wannabe pixie too, all jittery and twitchy-quick, her head turning this way and that as she took in the sights all at once.

'Course pixies are supposed to be all slender and stick-like, and this young woman had wide hips and an _impressively_ full chest, displayed a bit by the cut of her blouse and demanding much of Brus' attention (Hey! He was twelve!) Though, he was _supposed_ to be acting as a lookout here, so he took note of the darkwood shortbow slung over the girl's shoulder as well. Also noticed that she was wearing a belt and bandoleer that were lined with a ton of pouches. No doubt there were all manner of alchemical toys tucked away in those. Or spell components. Or maybe even both!

The girl was about as short as humans could get before you start wondering if there's some hin blood in 'em, but the man lumbering behind her made for quite a contrast. _Wow!_ He was a giant! Broad shouldered too, and muscled like an ox, with a look in his eye indicating that he might be just as dim. He had this big, addled grin on his face as he turned and marveled at the chiseled pillars and walls around him. Looked like kind of an easy target for pickpockets.

The big guy's head was cleanly shaved, sporting a purple tattoo that must have been some sort of tribal symbol, and he was dressed in dented splintmail armor, with a _massive_ sword slung across his back. The dents, the sword, and all the little scars that peppered the stranger's face pointed to a life of violence, but there was just something disarming about his goofy grin. Seemed the friendly sort.

Now, the shorter man who came slinking behind the big fellow put out the opposite impression. He was an elf —fair folk and all of that, with a thick mane of midnight-black hair that bordered on blue— but there was just something about his sharp little eyes and smug sneer that put Brus off, like the elf was enjoying a joke only he was privy to.

Not to mention the fact that he carried a staff with a black metal _skull_ at the top. That added to the creepiness a bit. Fellow was dressed in black too, with a royal purple cloak. Seemed like he was just brazenly advertising the fact that he was some sort of spellcaster.

Now, mages were hardly an odd sight for Brus. You grow up around the Shadow Thieves, you end up meeting bucketloads of 'em, but the Shadow Thieves that dabbled in magic were always wise and subtle about it, dressing in comfortable trousers instead of robes and keeping their components in the sort of pouches that anyone might carry. Walking around with an enchanted skull-staff, in an outfit that just screamed **_'Necromancer!'_** _…_ well, that was a different story.

Of course Brus was also fairly certain that the woman who walked beside the elf was _also_ a mage, but, like the pink girl, she kept it mostly hidden. Wore loose and comfortable clothes 'stead of armor, despite the fact that she was armed with a longsword, and she carried a little pouch-sash and a square satchel that was _just_ the right size for a spellbook. Kind of screamed ‘mage’ if you looked close.

This woman also walked with the sort of strut you see on bravos out looking for a duel, and she was tall and sturdy, forearms bare and corded with muscle. The woman's hair was brown, messy, and cut tomboy-short, with slate-gray eyes and a steel stud through one of her brows. Looked like there was an old scar across the bridge of her nose too, and she wore a permanent, crooked grin.

Real smiley bunch in general; this band of adventurers.

Well, except for the last member of the party. She ( _or he?_ ) was a bit of a mystery, being draped in a formless cloak and all, with a heavy hood and a cowl over her ( _?_ ) face. Brus kind of assumed it was a woman, but maybe that was just from the similarity between her ( _?_ ) outfit and some of the ones he'd seen on the veiled concubines of Calishite pashas. Only thing visible was her ( _?_ ) eyes. Striking eyes too: they were a brilliant shade of violet, under gently arching, white eyebrows that contrasted starkly with a shadow-dark complexion…

_Wowa! Masks's tongue!_

This was a drow! Brus' eyes widened and he clenched the railing he'd been holding onto. _Wow!_ He'd seen a lot of strange folk pass through Athkatla, being a lookout and all, but never a drow!

The dark elf's eyes shifted and met his, sharp already and narrowing further, and Brus couldn't help but gulp. His gaze shifted down to his lap and blood rushed to his face. _Woops._ Wasn't supposed to get spotted by the folks that he was spotting.

He didn't want to look suspicious, though, so he forced his eyes back up, looked the drow woman in the eye as she passed close to the balcony, and gave her a bashful little wave. She replied with a disdainful roll of her eyes, and then she and the rest of the strange procession passed on by.

Brus had to count his breaths to calm himself, tempted to drop from the _Crooked Crane's_ balcony then and there to scamper off and tell someone. _Wait 'till uncle Gaelan hears about this!_

* * *

"Quit gawping, you fool."

"Aw. But there's so much to gawp at!" Imoen replied, giving Viconia a wry smile. As usual, the drow walked in the back of their little procession, cloak bunched tight about her. "Fluted pillars and mosaic domes, for instance. Never seen their like before. And the people! There must be folk here from every corner of the Heartlands, the North, and the Shining South to boot!"

"'Tis high trade season, yes." Viconia kept her voice pitched low. "But there are also natives here aplenty, searching the crowd for wide-eyed tourists to pilfer."

"Oh, pish _and_ posh. I know well enough how to guard ma pockets." No matter where her eyes went, Imoen's hands hovered close to the blue velvet bag at her hip. There was an _alarm_ spell placed over it too. Can't be too careful when it comes to a _bag of holding._ Nosir!

"Perhaps. Though I was not addressing you alone, _khal'abbil._ " She gave the Rashemi giant walking between them a pointed look. The big galoot did indeed seem hypnotized by the nested domes and the proud, square towers that loomed all about them, oblivious to the milling crowd.

"Hrm. Yup. You may have a point there, since the big guy's already had his coinpurse nicked."

"What?" Viconia hissed, while Kirian and the elven man both snickered.

Reaching into her enchanted sack, Imoen pulled out a small pouch and made it clink. "Those kids back at the ramp in front of the gate. Remember? The ones who were pretending to play with daisy chains? One o' them ragamuffins snagged this, so I snagged it back. You didn't notice?"

Viconia's reply was just a contemptuous breath, and again Baeloth laughed. "Marvelous," he purred. "You should consider putting on some sort of legerdemain show."

Imoen gave him a dramatic little bow. Twas one of her simpler magic tricks, actually: using a little telekinetic cantrip to lift something at range and pocket it. Came in handy, though.

"I propose we replace the imbecile's purse with a bag of rocks," Viconia muttered.

"Boo has suggested as much," Minsc put in, nonplussed and impervious to insult. "Frequently he tells me that I must look after my coins with more care. Pesky, clinky little things that they are."

"Yeah," Imoen said. "I 'spose they just weigh a hero down. How about I keep this safe for ya, Minsc?"

He nodded. "My former witch…she would often hold such things safe for me." His smile faltered.

"Then as yer new witch, I'll be happy to!" With that she dropped the purse back into her enchanted bag. Not like money was a huge issue at the moment, what with all they'd looted out of Durlag's old home.

Soon they were back to admiring the domes that marched before them, the streets all packed and swarming with people. A great thoroughfare opened up and the traffic carried them along. Imoen wasn't sure exactly where they were going, but at some point she figured they'd spill out into the great market of Waekeen's promenade itself. From everything she'd read about Athkatla, the place was titanic. She kept looking ahead, anticipating the great stadium walls.

Nearer by, someone cleared their throat, and with a start Imoen realized that there was an extra person walking in their midst: a man who had just sort of materialized next to Baeloth. She whirled 'round to get a better look at 'em.

The stranger was dressed in thick gray robes and a big mushroom of a hood, his pace matching theirs, his head held low, and once he had their attention he spoke to Baeloth, all casual-like. "That spell is prohibited within these walls."

Baeloth managed to regain his smirk. "What spell?"

"The disguise you've placed on yourself."

"Aw. Truely? This teeny, tiny, innocent illusion? Surely there's no harm in it. Whereas…there might be harm in lifting the glamour and-"

"What?" The stranger took on a sarcastic tone. "You're actually a dragon under that weak coat of magic?"

"Hm." Baeloth pondered. "Well, not literally. Perhaps figuratively though." He curled his fingers; claw-like. "Rar!"

"Just drop the spell," the hooded man ordered, impatient and plain as a Flaming Fist officer or one of the Watchers of Candlekeep. "Or I'll have to call more of my fellows down here to make you. What is it anyways? Hiding a scar? You're a tiefling with an embarrassing little tail? We've seen it all before."

"Hmph. You're just no fun. Very well then, but I take no responsibility for damages done-"

"Just get on with it."

With a faint and dismissive gesture, Baeloth waved the illusion away, tanned skin switching to a dark shade of blue. His glossy black hair went full-reverse and turned silver-white, and his eyes took on a red tint.

To the dark elf's obvious delight the fellow in the puffy gray robes took a step back, body language going tense. "Oh…" he muttered. “Oh. Well. Shit." The reaction of the folks on the street was similar, lots of little gasps rising up from the crowd as it shifted back.

Baeloth showed off all his teeth with one of those big scarecrow smiles of his. "That is the common reaction, yes."

Shaking his head, the cowled man seemed to recover. "Hm. Well, all are welcome here in the City of Coin, even drow (though I'd hoped you were simply a tiefling. Damn). Just consider this a warning: arcane spells are _not_ to be cast by unlicensed mages within the city walls. The first infraction gets a warning, the second a fine, and you don't want to know what happens the third time."

"Rule of threes. Yes, yes. Very important in comedy."

"We are to be taken seriously."

"Of course. Your order or whatever it is could flay me alive with your delightfully devastating displays of arcane energy, I'm sure. I shall refrain from putting on an…" he surveyed the suspicious crowd all around him "…overly colorful show."

"You do that," the cowled man grunted, turning to disengage and make his way down the street.

"Well bugger all," Kirian grumbled once the man had walked away. "Not so much as an unlicensed cantrip? How am I going to clean my boots? Or put ice in my drinks?"

Imoen frowned. _Yeah._ She had certainly heard tales about Amn's intolerance of magic, in the abstract, but seeing that the enforcers really could just pop up out of the woodwork at the hint of a spell was unnerving. The fellow hadn't seemed to notice the _alarm_ on her bag, but would she get in trouble when she renewed it?

_Dang._ Maybe taking three spellcasters on a vacation to Athkatla hadn't been the brightest of ideas. "Well," she said, trying to force a smile. "Seems we need to look into getting a license, then."

* * *

Twas often a bit of a letdown, ending a shift as a lookout to head back to Uncle Gaelan's house. The Crooked Crane was a clean little roadhouse, always abustle with exotic travelers and the smell of spice and fresh hay. A few hours spent there was enough to forget the stench that would inevitably smack Brus on the nose once he found his way back to his own neighborhood. _Claykettle Street_ especially: there was always a pervasive smell of raw sewage and rot hanging over that stretch of slum.

The Crane was also a place alive with laughter throughout the day, along with the trill and jangle of the buskers' music and the harmony of their songs. Made for a stark contrast with the furious shouts that would echo through the slums. Day or night, when you walk down _Copper Pot Way_ or _Whisker's Street_ you could count on getting an earful from angry couples a hairbreadth away from beating each other with pans or rolling pins, along with the shrill calls of frustrated mothers, disapproving pimps, and impatient crew bosses.

Ah! That angry buzz! Along with the smell of shit and the ever-present piles of rotting garbage it let Brus know that he was close to home. Angling along the dirt-packed street, he increased his pace a bit as he neared the sprawled-out shanty of the Copper Coronet. Always good to give that place a wide berth.

Daylight was dimming, which meant that Arledian would be putting on supper, and Gaelan and his little circle would soon gather around the pots. They'd want a prompt report. Gaelan would definitely want to know about the elf who looked to be a necromancer, not to mention the-

A sound like hurricane winds interrupted his thoughts, coming from somewhere above and behind, and as Brus turned around the air above a row of buildings quaked like a heatwave, then solidified into a mass of riveted steel that hung and glinted in the dying light. Breath hitched and eyes wide, Brus tried to make sense of the sight: a giant metal globe that had just _appeared_ in the air thirty feet above the shanty houses of _Copper Pot Way._

Next came a groaning noise, followed by a series of booming cracks, then the upper stories of one of the buildings toppled. Beams snapped and mudbricks shattered against the street. A cloud of dust had just started to flutter up when all of that was dwarfed by the force of the sphere dropping fully onto the houses bellow. The crash was earsplitting, even at a distance. Brus' arm flew up to shield his eyes.

Bits of debris sailed into the air, followed by more cracking, groaning, screeching; damaged buildings giving way and pancaking under their own weight to send up streams of dust that must have cleared a good forty feet, obscuring the nearby rooftops. All the while the great mass of the sphere shook, knocked over a few more houses, then finally settled between their ruins.

Brus stood and watched a long, long time, still trying and failing to make sense of it all. Eventually he remembered to blink.

An oval slab of wood had come to rest against a pile of rubble near him. It was painted a crisp brown, with cherry-red spots, the whole of it carved in the shape of a pie. Another blink, and Brus recognized this bit of debris: the sign that had been hanging in front of _Candela's Sweet Shop_.

Had…had fat, kindly Ms. Candela just been _crushed to death?_ Would…would he never eat one of her glazed lemon _fritas_ again?

Swallowing hard, and trying not to think too much about who might have been under that mass of shattered masonry and alien steel, Brus whirled around and sprinted, all thoughts of the adventuring party forgotten. He _had_ to tell uncle Gaelan about this! Quick as he could.

* * *

Mirtul 24, 1369 D.R. (Six days later)

The adventurers slunk into port in the dead of night, about a half hour before middark, in one of the sorriest excuses for a ship that Mook had ever seen. Barely seaworthy, by her estimation: a single-masted thirty-footer slapped together from roughhewn odds and ends. There was a curved roof over the till where a proper cabin ought to be, and it had no hold or lower deck neither; just some boards nailed over an open bottom for the crew to rest their sorry asses on.

And that crew looked about as ragged as their vessel, excepting the sharply dressed fellow in red and a surprisingly clean halfling lass beside him. It was hard to get a clear look at the rest of 'em as the crew rushed about adjusting ropes and lowering sails, their ship drifting in towards the nearest dock. A port authority captain and a few of his armored blokes already stood in wait there, too. If the strangers in the slap-job ship didn't know about Athkatla's exorbitant docking taxes —and the fact that the tax collectors never slept— well, they were about to get a hard lesson.

A young woman with dark hair stepped to the prow as they docked and spoke to the harbor guards. Mook figured that the bums were about to get turned away, then and there, but nope. After a brief chat the woman turned around, bent over what passed for the hold of the ship, and returned a beat later with a handful of something glittery.

Mook's eyebrows rose. _Well then._ Might be she'd just spotted some good, fresh marks. Looked a bit dangerous though. As the guards walked off and the strangers disembarked, Mook scooted forward in her hiding spot, trying to note every detail.

The woman who had spoken with the port authority took the lead, stepping off first and surveying her surroundings. Had sharp, faintly Damaran features, her pallor pale at the edges and sunburnt at the cheeks. She'd a mess of tangled black hair that came down to her shoulders, a curt little scar on one cheek, and pale, ice-chip eyes that seemed to be trying to glare down everything they fell upon.

Middling height, built a bit narrow but obviously sturdy and solid; she was dressed in threadbare traveler's clothes and a fine cloak and boots that seemed to be enchanted. There was a fancy belt holding up her ragged trousers too, and a pair of swords (one short and one long) hanging off it. All told she looked like your typical scrappy pirate bitch, just off the boat and in sore need of a bath.

A second woman leapt down to the dock beside the first, and this one _definitely_ looked to be a warrior. Had the scaled armor to prove it, even if the chest was mostly torn apart, displaying some stitched-up padding underneath. Way taller than the first woman too: this one was a good six feet and then some; broad shouldered and obviously thick with muscle under her scales and rags. Her nose was a sharp beak, her dirty-blond hair was tied into loose pigtails under a horned halfhelm (well, there was one horn at least, though it was a bit bent), and there were quite a few scars on her weathered face.

Quite the bruiser, looked like, with a big hand-and-a-half sword strapped to her back. Seemed she was missing her right hand too, or at least had an odd device strapped over it: a round steel cuff with a little pig-sticker blade attached.

Both women made their way for the steps leading up from the lower harbor, followed by the man in red. That fellow really stood out, and not just because he'd somehow managed to stay cleaner than the rest. If Mook wasn't mistaken, he looked to be a Red Wizard of Thay, walking all brazen-like onto the streets of Athkatla. The Cowled Ones sure wouldn't be pleased with that.

The red fellow's hooded cloak and robes were elegant and spotless, and he was covered in enough jewelry to make even some of the gaudier Amnish nobility blush and go _'Hm. Isn't that all a bit much?'_ Probably all enchanted too. Wore a long, carefully braided moustache as well, which bobbed as he held his nose up and surveyed the docks like he owned 'em. Real arrogant looking prick (though a handsome devil as well, she had to admit).

The halfling at the wizard's side took everything in a bit different-like. She was all chipper and wide eyed, surveying the fog-shrouded docks with a look on her face like you'd expect from a child at a carnival. Her grin was wide, her face was round and tanned, and her shortish, face-framing hair was a bright and inexplicable shade of violet. Magically dyed, most likely; a popular practice up in Baldur's Gate.

The crisp woolen vest that the halfling wore was violet too, as were her trousers. Both garments appeared to hold countless pockets, some obvious and others disguised, and there were quite a few little one-button pouches hanging from her belt. A little imp with a thousand little tricks hidden on her person. Mook knew the type.

And then, bringing up the rear of this odd little crew, came a pair of savages.

Judging by their outfits (or lack thereof, especially in the man's case) Mook's first guess was that they were travelers from Maztica. Maztican warriors tended to wear loincloths a bit like the one the young man was dressed in, and you often see Maztican women in simple, knee-length dresses a bit like his companion's.

Though… _hm._ On further inspection (and the proud, half-naked and lithely muscled fellow certainly called for some _thorough_ inspection) the pair actually seemed to have the features you'd see on northern Sword Coasters. Almost Illuskan really, even if their hair was dark. Their features were quite similar to each other's, from the eyes to the lips to the long and shaggy brown hair. Looked to be a brother and sister; maybe even twins.

Both of 'em wore loose fur cloaks, the woman carried a painted staff, and they walked barefoot. There were quite a few upraised scars visible on both of them, too. Claw marks, seemed like. Some bite marks too. Had they spent their youth wrestling with bears or something?

The band was turning up now, filing 'round and climbing the steps that led higher into the city, and as they went Mook got a better glimpse of their backs. Her eyebrows rose. The fine cloak that the leader wore had a symbol sewn into it with cloth of gold: a grinning skull motif surrounded by a halo of tears.

Not every day you see someone brazenly wear the sign of a dead god. Maybe the pirate bitch was some sort of cultist? _Eh_. More likely the cloak just had a dandy enchantment on it, and the las didn't understand the heap of trouble she was inviting from Cyric's followers and the like by displacing such a symbol.

_Hm._ A motley crew indeed. Not the _most_ motley that Mook had ever seen in her time working as a lookout (that band from Sigil with the lady firenewt and the flying manta ray would likely never be topped), but these folks were quite the sight. As they disappeared up the steps and ‘round the bend she leaned back in her hidey spot and pondered how to classify them when Renal asked for the night's report.

Potential marks, or potential trouble? _Hm._ Looked more on the trouble side to her.


	2. First Things First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein everyone in Ashura’s band find…unique ways to party.

**2 - First Things First**

_"Enter a band of scoundrels, their faces filthy, their clothes unkempt, and a bottle passed between them."_ –Raelis Shai, stage directions from _A Reluctant Savior_

 

* * *

Damned if it wasn't good to be on solid ground again, even if she was still swaying a bit. Ashura had always assumed, when she'd watched sailors stumble down the gangplanks and onto the docks in Baldur's Gate, that the folks had just been drunk. Now she understood. 'Sea legs' and all that.

Of course she was still recovering from the worst hangover of her life. Out at sea she’d drunk a belladonna decoction, and spent uncounted days in a churning nightmare-fugue, her vision swimming with ghost and skulls; with ravens fluttering and demons feeding; with echoing darkness and gleaming fangs. Hadn’t been a pleasant thing, sweating lycanthropy out.

She'd been helpless as a lump too; 'till the last leg of the journey, with the twins hovering close and tending to her like she was a baby. Would have to figure out a good way to reward them for all they'd done.

Up ahead, beyond the fog that clung to the bay, a walkway climbed the steep hill that this corner of the city seemed to be built on. The ramp curled past silent, sleeping buildings, but halfway up there was a place where the windows were brightly lit and laughter echoed. Looked like some sort of tavern perched on the hillside, multiple stories tall and open for business. Hopefully there'd be rooms for rent.

Ashura led her weary little crew in that direction, climbing through ghosting lamplight. There was a sort of a balcony-space out in front of the tavern, and the heads and shoulders of two jolly sailors were visible above the railing at one corner.

"Good," Shar-Teel muttered. "I could use a drink."

"And a soft, clean bed," Edwin agreed. "(Though I doubt this rickety flea's nest will have anything resembling that)."

"If they don't, just conjure one," Ashura suggested. That was what he'd done on their ship. Edwin's magic –along with some helpful tricks that the twins knew– had just about turned their journey into a luxury cruise at times, though that had never kept Edwin from complaining.

As they rounded the rise the sign attached to the tavern came into view, wobbling in the breeze: _The Sea's Bounty Festhall._ Ashura shook her head. _Yeah._ Of course the first place they'd come to after stepping off the docks would be a brothel.

And, just in case there was any doubt, it was now clear that the pair of sailors over in the darkened corner had their pants around their ankles and a companion out in front of them. Their lady friend hadn’t been visible before, on account of being on her knees. She was dressed in skimpy gauze, her mouth and hands both busy with the men.

_Yep_. A festhall.

Durlyle and Delainy both stared in shock, Alora covered her eyes, and Edwin snickered. "Ah," he said. "Civilization at last."

There was a stairway at the back of the balcony that seemed to lead down into the confines of the hall, the murmur of many voices echoing up from within, and Shar-Teel was already making her way for it, ignoring the prostitute and her clients. She stomped down the stairs, Ashura followed, and the rest filed in behind them. There was a red partition sheet at the foot of the steps, and passing through that they entered bright light and heavy smoke, the common hall packed and alive with chatter.

The place had the scuzzy look of other dockside taverns and thieves' dens that Ashura had passed through, though the floors and tables appeared to get swept and scrubbed regularly, and the paint on the walls seemed fresh. Had some lively decorations too: bannered streamers ran between the ceiling beams, and fishing nets had been strung across the walls, decorated with ceramic crabs, fish, merfolk, and seahorses. Paintings hung between the nets —seascapes, of course— and the whole of it was lit by bright glass glowlamps.

A large crowd packed the taproom: clustered around tables, lining the bar, or just hanging about in the alcoves. It was high trade season after all, and that meant quite a few exotic travelers. There were scarified Chultan sailors at one table, Calishites in billowing white at the next, a trio of women from Vilhon with partly shaved heads and enameled breastplates, and even a table full of gnomes from Lantan, wearing strange and clunky-looking eyewear.

There were quite a few folk that looked to be natives too; mostly young men in clean and colorful garb, all laughing and drinking together. Seemed like some well-to-do fellows out for a night on the town. A few locals with shabbier clothes and sour faces stood out as well, the little cliques all dressed alike and carrying weapons. A trio of them played cards at a nearby table, one a dwarven man and the other two human, though their hair was an identical shade of red.

And, of course, there were a good many local women around, putting a generous amount of flesh on display. Festhalls, you know? Their costumes gauzy and scant, they leaned against shoulders, hung on arms, or wiggled in men’s laps; cooing, clapping, laughing, and drinking. There was at least one young man who looked to be wearing a costume too, his face and hair all prettied-up as he leaned against the bar, smiling and chatting with a craggy-faced fellow who looked like a sea captain.

The women were watched over by several gruff fellows in studded jackets who lounged at the periphery of the taproom, surveying the crowd and wearing knives and truncheons at their belts. Obviously the place's security.

Shar-Teel shouldered her way past all of that and over to the bar, slapping her good hand down on the surface and leaning in to get the attention of the man on the other side. The barkeep looked the round and sturdy sort: bald, with a lopsided beard and an open white shirt. One of his hands was missing, a cup-attachment much like Shar-Teel's covering the stump and bearing a hook. Had a booming voice when he spoke: "Why, if The Thumb don't detect some new guests! Come! Enter and be welcome at the _Sea's Bounty_!"

"Save the jolly speech, lardass," Shar-Teel snapped. "I've just been through Demogorgon's maw, got shat out the other side, then got swallowed down the other maw on top of that. I want the stiffest drink you've got."

The insult didn't seem to faze the barkeep. "That'd be the Monkey's Paw rum, I reckon. It'll have you breathing fire. Silver and a half."

"For a bottle?"

"For a drag glass."

Shar-Teel's steel gauntlet clunked down against the bar. "You're shitting me."

"Them's the prices."

"How about some ale then?"

"Some Bitter Black? Six copper."

"Six bloody…is this some joke?!"

"It's good stuff."

"Listen, you bloated sack of-"

"Here," Ashura cut in, slapping a small stack of gold coins down on the bar. "For her rum. And mine." She gestured with a thumb. "And drinks for my crew. Whatever they want."

Pocketing the gold, the big fellow nodded. "That'll do."

Shar-Teel kept glaring at the barkeep. "If this stuff's watered down it’s getting pitched right back into your ugly fucking face."

"Best not do that, miss," a guff man in stiff leathers snapped, sliding in beside her at the bar.

"Aye," another one of the armed men added, closing in from the other side. "Do anything untoward to The Thumb, and we'll toss you over the balcony." All the other thugs seemed to be watching them as well.

Shar-Teel gave them a long, hard glare, then glanced back at the barkeep. "Huh. So he's really called 'The Thumb?'"

"Yep."

"That's really what you all call him? What he calls himself?" She held up her bladed hand and the others stiffened, fingers at their weapons. Oblivious, Shar-Teel just examined her gauntlet. "And here I am without a dumb, ironic nickname." Her arm dropped back down, just as casual.

" _Righty_ , maybe?" The Thumb suggested as he placed a cup of rum in front of Shar-Teel.

" _Princess_?" one of the guards put in.

"How about _Pretty_?" his partner added.

Shar-Teel chuckled. "Good suggestions." Lifting her drink, she downed a big gulp of rum, then winced. "Or maybe ' _Pretty_ ' is the nickname I'll give you after I punch half your teeth out."

The man fixed her with a long glare, hand resting on the pommel of his truncheon. "There'll be no punching. If you start any violence you'll need to deal with all of us, weapons out." The glare softened just a smidge, and he gestured with his chin at the general chamber. "Might be you'll find someone else around here itching for a fight. Sailors are like that. So long as you take it out to the patio or the street we don't care what you do." With that he drew back, turned, and headed towards his post by the stairs.

"Bah," Shar-Teel grumbled, leaning back against the bar. She drew a breath and then downed the rest of her rum, face scrunching up again.

Ashura took up her own cup and tried a sip. _Whew!_ The stuff burned hard going down, and brought an instant flush to her cheeks. "Well," she said, "the night's still young."

"Yes," Edwin chimed in. "I am sure you will find a nice young man to beat senseless for absolutely no reason, before the dawn."

"Better," Shar-Teel said. "Not a proper tavern's night without a brawl."

"That's so silly," Alora chirped, fidgeting her way up onto a stool. "Everyone knows it's not a proper tavern's night without some _singing._ Shame no one's singing here." She looked around, a finger against her lip. "Hm. I've never heard Amnish drinking songs 'afore. We should get a round going with some sailors, or maybe I can teach these folk some-"

"Please," Edwin interrupted. "Do not sing."

"Aw, but-"

"Yeah," Shar-Teel grunted. "Had enough of your squeaking on the boat to last a lifetime."

"(Indeed. I would personally pay every drunken lout in here to form a gibbering chorus and sing their sea shanties if it means no songs from-)"

"Ooo!" Alora exclaimed with a clap. "A gibbering chorus! That would be fun! Make it happen, Edwin!"

He gave her a dramatic sigh. "Oh, why not? After a drink of my own, of course." The Thumb had moved down the bar to attend to a pack of colorfully dressed locals, but there was a barmaid passing closer by, an empty tray in her hand. Edwin waved to catch her attention. "You. Servant. What is the finest wine you have in stock?"

"Undermountain Alurlyath," the woman replied, cocking her head and sliding to a stop. "Without a doubt." She shot Edwin a smile. "And you certainly look the type who demands the best. If I might ask, are you some sort 'o prince from afar?”

"From afar?" Edwin straightened. "You do not recognize the robes of Thay's most high?"

She shook her head.

"(The ignorance of these lands). Your guess is apt, in any case. I am an heir to the seat of House Odesserion, ruling family of Surthay."

Ashura grinned down at her cup and took another burning gulp of rum. _'An heir.'_ Nice wording there. From what she'd been able to piece together Edwin was last in the line of succession of a very large family (there'd been a lot of specific taunting from one of his fellows about that subject. Before she'd killed the guy on Edwin's behalf. Long story). Not to mention that rulership isn't even inherited in Thay.

The serving woman seemed impressed enough, though. "My. Tis quite an honor then. I'll fetch your wine at once."

It seemed that the gnomes with the odd optics were getting up and making their way towards the interior stairs, so Ashura and the rest took their table and settled in. Soon the barmaid had laid drinks out for everyone.

"So," Durlyle asked, hunched a bit and puzzling out the sights around him "it is like a…feasting celebration here?"

"Yeah," Ashura replied. "Bit of a festival every night. So long as you can afford it."

"Strange. To celebrate among strangers. And without cause?"

"We've plenty of cause," Shar-Teel put in, tapping her cup against the tabletop. "End of a long, hard journey. Not being dead. First chance to put some liquor in our bellies this past month. We're bubbling over with reasons to celebrate."

"And," Alora added, "the folk here are only strangers until we get to know them! That's the way it is in big cities. Lots of new friends to meet!"

"Many appear…friendly," Delainy noted, watching the crowd with caution. She was either referring to the drunk men who were leering at her, or the 'friendly' women in various states of dress flittering amongst them.

"Yeah," Ashura grunted. "Watch out for the friendly ones, no matter what Lora says. Lots of dangerous folk here, especially the ones with big smiles."

Alora made a little ' _Hmph_ ' at that, but Durlyle seemed to agree. "Much like the tricks of the Beasts. Yes. We shall be wary."

"And we have our defenses," Delainy added.

"True." Ashura pondered that. She'd been worrying about what would happen to her new companions in a strange city, but come to think of it the twins were pretty dangerous themselves. Might be she'd have to protect Athkatla from this pair of werewolves, and not the reverse. Tipping back her cup, she finished off her rum.

Durlyle mimicked her action, cringing. "Another strange practice, to burn one's tongue in celebration."

"That burn goes away after a few drinks."

"Ah. A bit like numb-tongue tea."

"A little." Ashura put her hand on the boy's arm. "But that tea of yours wouldn't knock you out the way this stuff can. Best to go easy with it."

"Speak for yourself," Shar-Teel put in. "I've every intention of getting shitfaced."

"Go right ahead." Pushing off and standing up, Ashura turned for the bar. "'Scuse me." If Shar-Teel was going to drink herself into a coma it'd be best to rent a room they could deposit her in. Rent several rooms, preferably, so they weren't all piled up on top of each other like in some of her earlier days of adventuring.

Then they'd need to transport and lock away the stuff that they'd left (warded and guarded by some of Edwin's conjured creatures) on the boat. Logistic first. Then rum and relaxation.

 

* * *

It was some time later —after she and Edwin had moved their stuff into a freshly rented suite— that Ashura returned to the taproom and ordered her next drink for the night. Alora was perched on a stool by the bar, an oversized mug between her paws, and over its rim she gave Ashura a toothy smile. "Welp, at least I learned one drinking song tonight," she announced, "afore those nice people from the _Rosy Dawn_ had to go."

"Yeah. Could hear the singing from upstairs." Ashura glanced around while she took a sip of her second drink. Looked like the crowd had thinned out a bit over the past hour, and the mood of the place had grown somber. Lots of the remaining patrons lay hunched beside their tankards, sleepy-eyed or downright insensate. The twins remained at their table, talking with a couple of young locals. Looked like the foppish, slightly drunk guys were asking them a string of questions. "Where's Shar-Teel?"

"She managed to make some new friends too!"

Ashura raised an eyebrow. "Her usual way?"

"Ayup! She did some pushing and some shoving, bragged that she could take on the three of 'em even though she'd only got one hand and they'd got six, and she said all sorts of rude stuff 'bout the shape of their faces." Alora covered her mouth and giggled. "Being fair, their faces werrre a bit funny looking."

The table where the men had been playing cards was empty. "Was it the three guys with the red hair?"

Alora bobbed her head. "You'd think they were brothers, except one of them's a dwarf. I think there's a story there!"

"Local street thugs," Edwin stated. "That woman and her ridiculous death wish."

Alora made a face. "Death? Huh? They seemed like they were all having a good time…"

Ashura pointed at the stairs that led up to the street. "They went out there?"

"Yeah." Alora was frowning now. "Surely Ess-Tee's not in trouble…"

"The wench is always a hair's breadth from trouble," Edwin snapped. He laid a hand on Ashura's shoulder. "I say we leave her to whatever fate she's brought upon herself. Or prove her womanly worth or whatnot."

Ashura leaned back and snorted. "Heh. Maybe." She took a long drink from her cup. Not like this wasn't something Shar-Teel did all the time. The blond barmaid who thought Edwin was a prince stood by the taps at the moment. Holding out her drink, Ashura waved the woman over. "Could you top this off?"

"Sure thing." The server found a bottle and poured.

Back to Edwin: "Of course there might have been twenty more redheaded thugs out there, waiting for someone like Shar-Teel to rob and rape."

"Again, that is her problem."

Shaking her head, and now carrying a full drink, Ashura pushed away from the bar and started for the stairs. "Ought to at least make sure the fight's fair."

Edwin trailed her. "You realize," he said as they went, "that we will then be facing those twenty hypothetical thugs, if we join in her idiocy?"

"We've faced worse."

"The Flaming Fist compound?" He bristled. "I was _flogged_! (Such indignities)."

Her face tightened as they climbed the steps. "Yeah, so was I." ( _Flogged, and a_ whole _lot worse besides, before we broke out and killed the bastards_ ). She didn't say that though. Instead: "I was thinking more about a certain band of Thayan mages we took out."

"Yes, yes. You will always hold that over-"

"They were no real challenge. What's twenty street thugs?" They topped the stairs.

A meaty smack greeted them as they stepped out into the night, and one of the red haired fellows stumbled towards them before dropping onto his back, his lip bloody and his arms splayed out. The lad (looked pretty young, up close) shook himself, blinking several times

Seemed Shar-Teel was having fun.

The big woman was a blur of motion on the other side of the patio, feet loose and arms up as she danced and dove away from stray punches. One of her own punches forced a second man to turtle behind his arms and slip back a step, then Shar-Teel managed to check a blow from the dwarf with her maimed arm, bringing her good fist down at the same time like a hammer. The force of the blow dropped the dwarf to his knees.

That didn't take him out fully, though: he snarled and tried to snatch at Shar-Teel's legs. Before he could clamp on proper she managed to shove him back with a knee, the kick propelling her away. Behind her, the other man circled in.

Shar-Teel was dressed in her padded shirt, ratty trousers, and boots. Her scale armor and weapons had been shed and piled by the stairs, and there were some axes and knives over there as well. Looked like they'd all agreed on some sort of terms for this, instead of just stepping out into the night to murder each other. Didn't seem like there were twenty thugs waiting in the shadows either. Good.

The fellow who'd dropped in front of Ashura and Edwin had managed to wobble up and get off his ass, fists rising as he braced himself. He shot them a glare. "Don't interfere."

"We're just here to place bets," Ashura replied. Hearing that, Shar-Teel barked out a hearty laugh on the other side of the patio.

Nodding at them, the lad charged back into the fray.

Three-on-one now. For a blink it looked like they had her surrounded, with the young guy sliding in to flank, but Shar-Teel went near-horizontal and zipped backwards, her ankle sweeping and taking the would-be-blindsider off his feet (and just after he'd found them again). He crashed down onto his palms and knees, while Shar-Teel glided further away and braced her back against a wall.

The dwarf came charging at her like a bull and the older man took a swing, but Shar-Teel managed to sweep to the side so fast that the human’s punch struck the wall. The dwarf had to swerve too, but his swiping fist connected with Shar-Teel's ribs and made her lurch.

"I suppose," Edwin whispered as they watched the fight, "I am to wager against her?"

Ashura shrugged. Shar-Teel was grappling with the dwarf now, and the younger man had again regained his feet.

"Knowing her," Edwin continued, "I'd be more inclined to put five gold on the fight escalating and leaving a corpse or two up here."

Shar-Teel's good hand had slithered up and pressed against the dwarf's chin, and she was rocking about now, trying to shove. Ashura had seen the woman break men's necks before, though under rather different circumstances. Didn’t have a good angle here, and she was short a hand. A punch from one of the other men caught Shar-Teel on the chin.

While the fight went on Ashura bent down and lifted Shar-Teel's scabbarded sword, placing it under her arm. No way was she leaving something as valuable as the _Sword of Balduran_ just sitting around on a walkway. (It was actually kind of an impractical weapon, what with the two parallel blades, but there were some decent enchantments woven into the silver and iron. Not to mention that it was an ancient relic. Hopefully someone would pay extra coin for that).

"Actually," Ashura whispered, "I'd put five gold on her getting her ass kicked." She'd seen Shar-Teel fight many times, and sparred with her too. Not a good sign if she hadn't won decisively yet.

"Not a bet I would take."

"Well I will," Alora cut in from Ashura's other side. "Five gold on Ess-Tee beating their behinds! Go Ess-Tee! Go Ess-Tee!"

A squirm freed Shar-Teel's arm from the dwarf's grip, and she landed a hard elbow to the side of his head. He loosened and rolled back, and she spun away, dancing over and close to the balcony's railing.

The other men were on her quick. Shar-Teel fended the older one off with a hook to the chin that had him reeling back, and she managed to block a punch from the younger guy with her lame arm, then catch his other hand by the wrist. Yanking hard, she drew the young man’s arm over her shoulder, pulling him close: chest-to-chest and knee-to-groin.

The lad let out a pained ' _Oof!_ ' and Shar-Teel's other arm hooked under his armpit. Lifting and twisting, she threw him bodily over the railing.

"HA!"

Ashura figured she'd be out some gold in a moment or two, either to Alora or Edwin.

Although…the flinging had left Shar-Teel panting hard, and her back was now turned to the other two fighters. She caught twin punches to the lower back, and for a moment it looked like she'd go over the railing too.

Instead she twisted aside, managing a stumble-dance. Her opponents followed.

Fists flew. Feet tapped and scraped the patio stone. There was hard breathing and blood streaking every face. Seemed pretty up in the air whether Ashura, Alora, or Edwin would win the bet.

The dwarf and human swung in at once. An elbow knocked the dwarf aside and sent him skidding, but the other man managed to wrap an arm around Shar-Teel's maimed limb and deliver a series of lightning-quick jabs to her face. A shove freed her and she stumbled back, punch-drunk and brushing the railing.

Then the dwarf came charging, the top of his head and outstretched hands colliding with Shar-Teel's gut. She hit the railing hard, tipped, and then they both went over. Ashura winced.

Laughing, the other man raced over to the rail, climbed up to straddle it, then dropped down.

Ashura arrived a breath later and leaned over to look. It wasn't actually a long fall down to the flagstones of the lower street, but it seemed that Shar-Teel had taken it about as hard as you can. She lay limp and splayed out on her back, the dwarf untangling himself from her and wobbling to his feet. The younger fellow that Shar-Teel had thrown a moment ago was lying nearby, curled up and unmoving.

For a brief moment the dwarf and the other man looked at each other, then they both turned to Shar-Teel's prone form, gathered their breath, and started kicking. There was no reaction at first: she just rocked about, limp and senseless, then a blow to the ribs jarred her and she started curling up.

More kicks followed, and now the younger man was climbing to his feet and regaining his senses. Soon as he realized what was going on he joined in with a gusto, first kicking and then leaning down to pummel with his fists.

"You appear to have won a bet," Edwin stated, leaning over the railing beside Ashura.

"Yeah." She took a sip from her cup.

Alora hopped up onto the rail. "Dang," she remarked. "Um…she needs some help, doesn't she?"

Ashura just watched. "Not like she hasn't done the same or worse to guys she's beaten. And she started all of this." And _eh_ , didn't look like they were attempting anything lethal. The kicks even grew less enthusiastic after a time, the dwarf and the older guy tiring of it.

Shar-Teel had been flattened out on her belly by then, apparently unconscious. The younger fellow finally stopped punching too, pausing to catch his breath. Not completely tired out though: a moment later he bent down and slipped his hands under Shar-Teel's armpits, starting to lift. "I say we throw this bitch over a barrel!" he snarled as he began to haul her.

( _Damn. How predictable_ ).

Next thing she knew Ashura had slipped over the railing and dropped to the flagstones below, Varscona out from its sheath and less than a finger's length from the young man's neck. Frost-mist seeped up from the blade and tickled the boy's face. "Think that's enough."

The boy held very, very still, but his eyes shot daggers at her. Most of his face was cherry red, and would likely be purple and swollen soon. "That's not fair. She-"

"Do I look like someone who gives a shit about 'fair?'" Ashura snapped. "Apparently I'm the referee here, though. So congratulations. You won. Now off with you."

The boy's face twitched, and it looked like he might protest some more, but the dwarf cut him off. "Yeah. Let's go." He gestured towards the steps and looked the boy in the eye. "If the Squishers ever laid you flat again and robbed you, you wouldn't want 'em yanking yer pants down and plowin' you in the arse on top o' that, now would you?"

The dwarf and the boy shared a glare, and after a moment the boy let Shar-Teel flop back down to the street, none too gently. Ashura eased off, sword still pointing, and watched the three men file away and over to the steps, their gait stiff and the older one pressing a palm to his bleeding nose. As the trio climbed up Alora wove down past them, her eyes on Shar-Teel's prone form and a worried look on her face.

"You do realize," Edwin eventually said, "that the dwarf took her coinpurse?"

"I'd be disappointed if he didn't," Ashura said. Seemed he'd been the brains of the operation. Brawn too, considering that he was the fellow who'd actually flattened Shar-Teel. The woman lay unmoving on the ground, though Ashura thought she heard a groan.

"Dang," Alora repeated, shaking her head. "Thought for sure she'd win." She turned, then surprised Ashura with a smile. "Ah well, guess I owe you this." With that she plucked a little woolen sack that Ashura'd never seen before out from her pocket, then produced a stack of gold coins.

Ashura raised an eyebrow, reaching out. "Lora, dare I ask where you got that bag?"

Alora's grin widened with pride. "Oh, you know. Just sort of fell into my pocket on the way down the steps." Once she'd handed the gold off, she patted her vest. "Along with a couple o' other purses."


	3. Accommodations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grand tour of Athkatla's marketplace, and a less grand tour of a Festhall.

_"When confronted with any grand or wondrous sight, all drow seem to be contractually obligated to scoff, roll their eyes, and inform you that whatever you're seeing pales in comparison to its equivalent in Menzoberranzan."_ –Ribald Barterman, _Old Ribald's Guide to Dungeoneering_

* * *

Mirtul 19, 1369 D.R. (Five days earlier)

Athkatla was a marvel!

_Don't stare. Don't gawk. Don't let yer mouth droop, ya dang fool!_ Imoen kept telling herself that —had been all day— but as she stepped out of the tunnel and the whole of Waukeen's Promenade opened up before her, well, her jaw fell to the ground once again. Couldn't help but turn 'round and 'round to take in the full scope and scale of it all!

Walls and support pillars fifty feet in height encircled the great, tiered stadium, the honey-brown stone capped with massive bronze domes that glittered in the light of a lovely afternoon. Colossal statues stood sentinel over the whole of it, lining an oval that must have stretched a full half mile or more, end to end.

And the entire place was packed —packed!— with tents, awnings, and merchant stalls; all a riot of color and scents and crying voices. Stairways climbed the arena's tiers, every level crammed with displays; with bright banners and gilted signs all vying for the attention of the milling crowd.

Stalls everywhere, and just at a glance it seemed that everything imaginable was up for sale here. There were rolls of shining silk, platforms lined with furniture (some plush and colorful, others made of finished hardwood worked into elaborate shapes), pottery, paintings, statuary, pianos and standing harps and cherrywood string-instruments locked in crystal cases. There were cages where exotic animals lounged in the heat, and weapons and glassware and grass dolls, along with enough rolled up carpets to cover the whole of Baldur's Gate.

And food, of course.

Oh _boy_ was there food: stands of fresh vegetables, butcher's carts, rows of colored spice-jars, confectionary stands, grills where skewers turned and roasted, and teas and drink-stands promising to quench every parched throat. All manner of drink was for sale, along with other sorts of bottles; corked and filled with potions, lotions, oils, cures, spirits, and Oghma only knew what else (perhaps there was a genie in one of them?)

Baeloth, naturally, was unimpressed.

"It sure shows how these copper-pinching ninnies think, doesn't it?" he scoffed. "They took what may very well be the largest arena ever built, and they filled it with secondhand rugs and vegetable carts. Just think of the splendid shows that could be put on here instead!" Nose in the air, he gave the tiers a longer look, faltering. "Though…perhaps there is such a thing as an over-sized arena. Seems most spectators here would have to squint, trying to make out what the fighters or performers were doing all the way down here in the dirt. Hm. You would need giants to truly exploit-"

"This place was a racetrack, idiot," Kirian interrupted with a roll of her eyes.

Baeloth gave her a questioning look. "Races? Such as…goblins running through deathtrap mazes? They would still be too small-"

"Horses. They raced them here, back in the day. Folk in the Shoon Imperium loved their stallions even more than your average randy Cormyrian noblewoman. They'd stage chariot and cavalry races here, 'round and 'round the track."

"How very…dull. Just…horses? Circling? Is there some element that I'm missing? Fires and spike pits, perhaps?"

"Nope. Just a test of speed. Folks loved it. Go figure."

"Eh. I suppose you have to give the people what they want."

"Yeah. And now the Amnian national sport is shopping." Kirian waved a hand about, encompassing the market. "So this is what we get."

"Yup," Imoen put in. "And that's fine by me. Who doesn't enjoy a nice shopping trip?" Viconia made a little noise at that: some sort of huff, though she and the rest followed as Imoen sped further through the bazaar.

The sweets stands took top priority, of course. Lots and lots of sweets.

After working her way through (and sampling) a sticky bun, a Sembian tart, and some lovely little treats made from fried dough and lemon paste, Imoen found herself in a corner of the market lined with artist's displays. One particularly colorful stand drew her eye: festooned with little canvas squares where dynamic patterns and simple pictographs were painted. Goblins snarled, dragons swooped, characters posed (dramatically or provocatively, depending on the picture), beholders bristled with eyestalks, and sailing ships cut the waves.

Twas a tattoo shop, and the orcish woman behind the counter sported a lot of the artwork on herself; on her arms, her neck, and her shoulders. She was currently working with hammer and needle on a client's bicep, tapping out some sort of starburst pattern.

As she watched the woman work Imoen let out a little " _Ooo"_ Then she added: "They had tattoo artists up and down The Wide in Baldur's Gate. Always wanted to get some mark to commemorate our time there. Maybe even convince the others to get a matching set. But we got run out of town before we got the chance."

"Better off having not," Kirian remarked. "No matter what you pick, you'll come to regret it at some point."

"What?" Imoen gave her a curious look. "Speaking from experience? You got someone's name tattooed on yer butt or something?"

Kirian rolled her eyes. "No. Well. Something akin to that, maybe." She rolled up the cuff and sleeve of her shirt, revealing a mark on her bicep. Looked a bit like a coat of arms, with a fairly realistic griffin charging through a blue field. "My old adventuring band's crest. Screaming Griffins. Sounded…intimidating, I guess. Night before we set out from Waterdeep to find Baerin's grandfather we got rip-roaring drunk and everyone got these. Made the usual pledges about sticking together too, laughing and backslapping and all that." She looked off.

"Hrm. Yeah." Imoen scrunched up her face. That whole getting-petrified-by-basalisks-and-being-left-that-way-for-months thing was a bit of a sore spot with Kirian. "Well, there's magic that can erase tattoos, right? How 'bout we get the old one lifted and replace it with a _Company of the Pink Archer_ sigil?"

"Uh. No offense Immy, but this ain't exactly a company I expect to stick by me through thick and thin. You've been great, but uh…" She gave Baeloth a pointed look. The drow was currently peering into a cage where a massive python sunned itself, eye to eye with the snake. Looked a bit like they were communing.

"Hm. Yeeeeah, him I'll give you. Kind'a the sells-his-own-mother-into-slavery type. But the rest of us are trustworthy!"

Kirian looked skeptical.

"Yes, even Vicky. Especially her."

"'Trust is for the foolish, and the dead,'" Kirian mimicked.

"Oh, that's just something she says! Long as you're on her list of friends, she'll cross all the Hells for you. Seen her do it, too."

Kirian's skeptical look didn't change.

Speaking of Viconia, it seemed that she was being badgered by one of the nearby vendors: an elf-blooded woman with golden-blond hair. The merchant shouted and gesticulated: "You! You! Beauteous creature! Such beauty, yet you hide beneath a mask? For shame." The woman had a bit of an accent. Tethyrian maybe? Or perhaps from somewhere deeper south.

The attention had slowed Viconia's step, and now she turned to glare at the merchant. "With good reason," she snapped.

"Afraid your full countenance will dumbfound the men? Perhaps strike them dead?" The woman leaned in, hands braced on her stall's counter. At a glance it appeared that she was peddling perfumes and other beauty products, the shelves around her festooned with vials and jars of brightly colored glass, along with a little stand-up mirror.

"Something of that nature," Viconia replied. To prove her point she reached up and pulled her bandana aside.

The look on the half-elven woman's face didn't change. If anything, her smile brightened, eyes a'twinkle. She seemed a pretty woman, or at least skilled at using her own products. "Exotic indeed, and you've a striking and natural beauty at that! My humble products would do little to enhance it, but perhaps the scented oils or the salts might please you? I've scrubs infused with honey and lavender, to bring even more of that dusky shine to your skin."

Viconia just stared at the woman a moment. "For a _rivil_ , and one of _faerie_ blood at that, you've a surprising attitude towards me."

"Oh, we get all types in the City of Coin. Though rarely one so striking." She inclined her head. "I am Seni, by the by." Perhaps she expected an introduction, but Viconia just continued to glare. After a pause the merchant snatched up a vial. "Hm. Although my paints would do little, perhaps a sampling of this scent might please you?" She pulled the stopper.

Viconia wrinkled her nose and turned her head. "I think not." She stepped away from the stand as the merchant extended her arm, and Imoen caught a whiff of cloves from the bottle. Smelled nice enough. "Your fawning irritates me," Viconia added, and with that she marched on down the promenade.

Again, the merchant seemed to take it all in stride, putting the stopper back and smiling all the while. As Imoen hurried to catch up with Viconia she heard a chuckle from the saleswoman, and something about "…queenly beauty, and a queenly attitude to match."

"That stuff smelled alright to me," Imoen said as she slipped in at Viconia's side. She laughed to herself. "That woman was downright-"

"Suspicious?" Viconia suggested. "Yes."

"I was going to say flirty. Or at least a real aggressive saleswoman. I kind of wanted to sample some of her stuff though-"

"No." Viconia's voice was low and sharp. "One should never so much as sample oils or perfumes from a suspicious source. Placing a scent on someone for future tracking is a common trick."

Imoen rolled her eyes. This was a darn open air market, not a place of courtly intrigue. She didn't press the subject, though. Was more interested in checking out the series of stands up ahead anyway, where it looked like a million sorts of books and scrolls were up for sale. _Hm. I wonder if the latest_ Drizzt the Drow _chapbook's been printed._

* * *

Mirtul 25, 1369 D.R. (Six days later)

Morning in the common hall of the Sea's Bounty was far more subdued than middark had been. No pipesmoke curled up to the rafters, no cups or glasses clinked, and hardly a word was spoken —let alone shouted— as Ashura and Durlyle made their way down the steps. The place was near as silent as a library, nothing to be heard beyond low munching and the occasional scrape of a chair leg.

The Thumb wasn't around either, and instead a wiry man with a sour face worked the cookfire by the bar, assisted by a weather-beaten halfling woman. Between them they were fixing and dolling out morningfeast: some sort of egg dish speckled with green and red peppers along with heaps of fried bread. There weren't many patrons up and about, and the few that were rested their heads on the tabletops beside their plates, half-awake and nursing hangovers. A couple of folks lay sprawled out and obviously asleep, in exactly the same positions they'd been in the night before.

Shar-Teel and Alora were at a table near the bar, the big woman hunched over and carefully munching a corner of her meal while the halfling stared out ahead at nothing in particular, eyes hooded and bloodshot. When Alora noticed them coming she blinked and shook herself a bit, raising a sluggish hand to wave Ashura and Durlyle over.

"Morning," Alora said with a fraction of her usual pep, and Shar-Teel just grunting. She looked about as much of a banged-up mess as she had been the previous night: half her face swollen up and the other side only looking better by comparison, arms and hands all bruised, cracked, and clad in stained bandages. Her hair was a tangled rat's nest, the fork trembled in her hand as she tried to eat, and she hadn't even bothered to don her boots.

"My sister?" Durlyle asked.

"Was still sleeping last I checked," Alora responded. "I think she'll be out a lonnng time too, poor dear."

"Ugh. Yeah." Ashura rubbed the back of her neck. "Tried to warn her." She'd a vague memory of shouldering a wobbling and giggly Delainy through the upper halls of the _Bounty_ the previous night, tipsy herself and trying to find the rooms they'd rented.

"I'll look in on her after morningfeast." Alora's eyes went down to the plate in front of her, the food untouched. "When I can. Maybe have a bit of a lay-down myself. Whew. What a night."

Shar-Teel made a noise; maybe agreement or maybe just a pained grunt.

Turning, Ashura made her way over to the bar, and Durlyle followed her lead. The dour halfling woman served them mechanically, and with steaming plates in hand they returned and took their seats. It actually looked like a pretty appealing meal to Ashura. Especially the greasy bread. It had been that sort of morning.

She took a couple bits, then spoke: "We're going to go check the storefronts after this. Find some clothes for Durlyle that won't draw so much attention. I guess I'll be picking out some clothes for Delainy too, if she's still not up." She turned to Shar-Teel. "Was going to see if there's an armorer around. If I find one, I'll I take your coat in for a mend?"

"Be my guest." Shar-Teel's tongue was thick in her mouth.

"I'll see about healers and apothecaries too."

Shar-Teel's lip twitched, dribbling some crumbs. "Hmph."

"We'll-"

"Could have bloody taken 'em."

"Uh…"

"Back when I had two good hands I knocked five men flat in a bar brawl, once. Thought they had me, but I slithered past every one of 'em. They never saw the fists coming." She shook her head. "That dwarf last night though…I didn't expect to get caught like that. But if I could have grappled proper I could have turned it around." She was glaring down at her right hand now, limp as a fish on the tabletop.

Ashura opened her mouth, then closed it. Could think of lots to say, but it was hard to know what might just set Shar-Teel off some more. So instead she focused on her plate and went on with forking her meal down in silence.

A few moments later a flash of red caught her eye, over by the steps. Edwin was dressed up as always, straight and stiff as he entered the hall, with one of the barmaids walking at his side and clinging close. Appeared to be the blond one from the previous night, who'd asked if he was some sort of prince. As they sauntered into the taproom the barmaid laughed and leaned in, whispering something in Edwin's ear while he just sort of stared off into the middle distance.

They stopped, the barmaid laughed again, and Ashura caught a bit of the next exchange between them. "…best check on The Thumb and make sure 'e hasn't gotten his hook caught on something again."

Edwin muttered something unintelligible in response, then the barmaid kissed him on the cheek, and added: "Be seeing you, Eddie," before scampering off towards the door to one of the backrooms.

"Yes, yes," Edwin grumbled at her back. "Off with you wench." The woman didn't seem to hear (he'd pitched his voice pretty low) and Edwin continued on towards the table.

Alora's mouth opened to form an excited **O** , but before she could let out a breath Edwin preempted her with a raised finger. "Not one word. Not one word."

The **O** closed and became an exaggerated pout.

"You know that I can make good on that demand too, don't you? I've a _silence_ spell at the ready. Just one word and a tap of this finger…"

Alora pressed her lips together tight, making a show of how sealed they were. She then proceeded to raise her hands and begin to weave them through several intricate gestures, fingers interlocking and quivering. Looked like thieves' hand-cant, though Ashura didn't really know more than a word or two. At one point Lora's fingers bridged up high, with her thumbs pressed together low, making a sort of a heart shape, and she made a big show of bouncing it up and down in front of her.

That drew a deep laugh from Shar-Teel (followed by a pained cringe). Seemed she knew the cant.

The little show was interrupted by a stranger's voice, close by: "I wouldn't be threatening to fling any spells about, where I you."

Ashura's hand darted to Varscona's hilt as she shifted in her seat and sized the intruder up. A man, rather shortish and wiry. He was dressed in drab grays and browns, save a blood-red cloth tied about his shoulders. His hair and beard were a sandy brown, all trimmed close, and without flourish. Intentionally nondescript.

Without a care for the startled looks he'd just drawn, the stranger stepped closer, commandeered a stool beside Alora. "Magic would draw the Cowled Ones down here like flies to a wound. Cause all sorts of disruptions."

"Bah." Edwin leaned back in his seat. "A simple spell-"

"Is all it takes most times, in a place they've got their eyes on. And trust me, they watch the _Bounty_ close. I wouldn't dare a cantrip down here in public. Of course, they don't have nearly as many eyes out here as _we_ do."

"We?" Ashura asked.

The stranger leaned in. "Us folk who keep these docks neat and orderly. Keep the goods and gold flowing. Keep the peace. Collect the price for that peace. All that." He turned a sharp eye on Alora. "We've been watching, and are none too pleased with what we've witnessed."

"Haven't seen a lot of order myself," Ashura said.

"There's plenty. Those three fellows with the matching red hair you got acquainted with last night? They're a part of it. Paid their dues and traded in favors. They're under our protection."

"They agreed to a fight."

A dismissive wave. "Oh, that's fine. What's a night in at port without a brawl?" Again, he rounded on Alora. "But _you_ swiped their purses. Right under their noses, pretty as you please. Impressive, but that kind of freelancing isn't tolerated in these parts."

"This a threat?" Ashura asked.

The stranger shrugged. "Eh. A very friendly warning. Strangers who don't know the rules sail in here all the time. Lots of misunderstandings. Don't steal from any locals again, and there won't be any trouble. Steal again, knowingly, and we'll take recompense out of your hide." With that he pushed off from the table, turned, and walked away.

"Well darn," Alora said. "Hope this city isn't completely full of spoilsports."

"Yes," Edwin grumbled. "Cowled Ones? Bah. (Though I will need to look into that. What a bothersome complication)."

* * *

"Now hold 'yer arms out straight, like so."

Ashura obeyed, and the dwarven man on the stepstool bent and stretched out his string, measuring her from armpit to hip. Next, the dwarf coiled the cord 'round her waist, nodded to himself, then let it slacken. "Aye," he said. "Aye. That'll do. Can lower 'em now." As Ashura did that, the dwarf climbed down to the floor, shuffling over to jot something down in his big ledger book. "A coat and breaches of chain, with a banded overlay for the limbs and vitals, yes?"

"That's what I want," Ashura said. "Flexible as you can make it."

"Fer the sum we've agreed upon, you'll have a suit both mobile and sturdy. This here's the greatest smithy in all Athkatla, after all." With those words he puffed up with pride, and Ashura just gave him a polite half-smile. Likely every blacksmith in town made that boast, and she wasn't exactly the best judge of such things.

Looked like a fine enough shop, though. Displays lined the walls, bristling with runemarked weapons and armor sets. There was a dizzying array of spears and pikes in all lengths and widths, along with shields, axes, and swords; and even a few crystal cases showing off exotic armors. There were breastplates made from blue steel, patterned bronze, and even reptile scales. A wide doorway gaped between some of the displays, and beyond that sat a gigantic forge, with a squat and sturdy anvil out in front that appeared to be covered in dwarven script.

With a clap the blacksmith shut his book and dusted his hands. "We'll have the suit ready in half the time as other smiths, too" he continued to boast. "Lucky fer you I'm not bogged down in commissions at the moment, and I've materials to spare. Should be assembled and enchanted within four days."

"Sounds good."

"Unless ye want me to add something to the set? A proof against fire or ice, perhaps?"

"It'll do as is."

"And of course," the dwarf went on, looking over to Durlyle, "I can make a set of armor for ye too."

"Need not," the young man replied in his stilted Chondathan. "My hide is being quite tough as is…" Ashura shot him a sharp look and a shake of her head, and he bit his tongue.

Before finding this smithy they had visited several clothier's shops, and Durlyle was now outfitted in the Amnish style, with a loose gray shirt fastened under a darker vest and tucked into woolen trousers, his feet clad in supple sheepskin alpargatas.

"Suit yerself then," the dwarf replied. "Seems our business is concluded."

Ashura picked up her satchel and she and Durlyle took their leave, pushing through the shop's door and back out into the briny air of the dockside. Once the door had shut behind them Ashura whispered: "Best not to mention your 'hide,' and how tough it is. Invites questions."

A thoughtful nod. "I will refrain." Being alone, he spoke his native tongue now: an old Thorass dialect with a few northern inflections.

Gulls circled and cawed overhead, the light of late morning peeking through a fractured gray sky, and beneath them sprawled the docks: layered, dizzying, and haphazardly built. Wooden steps led down from the smithy's storefront to the weathered street, which itself curled a good twenty feet above the ocean and the spider's web of quays. This whole neighborhood seemed a network of stairways and sharp drops, carved out long ago from a steep series of cliffs above the river's mouth. Little railings ran everywhere at hip level, some carved from stone while others were just cobbled together from rough wood.

They stepped down onto the street, passing close to the shadow of a lighthouse tower. A pungent smell of rotting fish hung over everything here, along with the murmur of countless folk ambling by on the street or climbing the footways that branched off of it. "Proofing against the elements sounds…useful," Durlyle ventured once they had walked a few strides.

"True," Ashura said. "Don't want to spend all I've got on a set of armor, though. Not until we find out how much we're going to get for Balduran's old stuff. And, well…you saw that thing I did with the dwarf, right?"

"Which thing?"

"The back and forth. The really low number from me, then the high one from him, and his claim that I'd insulted his materials and the honor of his ancestors and all that bullshit."

"Yes. A bit like…the dances of my people? A posturing ritual?"

"Pretty much. I didn't want to go through that all over again. Hate haggling." Reaching down, she pinched the hem of her cape. "My mom's old cloak has a little protective magic sewn into it, anyway. Hopefully that'll do."

They climbed their way up from the dockside streets to the dome-capped sprawl of the _Sea's Bounty_ , passed some milling sailors who were sharing the view and a pipe between them (though thankfully not a prostitute, this time of day), and descended the steps into the common hall.

Seemed that Delainy had finally risen for the morning, if you could call it that. The girl lay with her chest and chin on the tabletop, Alora perched on the stool at her side and wearing a concerned frown. Edwin sat at the table as well, nose in some book and opposite the others. As Ashura and Durlyle approached, Delainy tried to look up, her eyes tomato-red. "I wish to die," she groaned.

Durlyle leaned over, placing a hand on his sister's forehead. "Is there something I can do, perhaps?"

"Don't think magic'll cure what she's got," Ashura said, taking a seat and placing her satchel on the tabletop. "Least that's what every priest and mage I've traveled with has said. Best thing for her is a drink of water, if she's not too sick to hold it down."

"I will fetch some."

"Some greasy food might help her too. Again: if she can keep it down."

"Hm. That delicious dish, perhaps? Fried..?"

"Fried bread, yeah."

He scurried off to fetch some food and water while his sister pressed her forehead down against the tabletop and groaned.

"I uh…brought you something," Ashura ventured.

"Oh?" Delainy didn't look up.

Ashura tapped her satchel. "Some clothes. To help you blend in here, and have a few spares. Figured I owed you big after all those dresses of yours I destroyed. If uh…if these don't fit right or you want something else we can find more clothes, too."

There was an awkward pause, then Delainy managed to form a few more words. "Thank you."

"Guess you can try them on later." She turned to Edwin. "New book?" There was a pattern on the cover that she didn't recognize.

"Obviously," he snapped. "There is a library and temple not far up the street from this establishment. Surprisingly well stocked, and they've many a tome on the history of this place." He lowered the covers slightly, looking past her. "Ah. You sent your puppy over to fetch our highbite. Good."

"If you want food," Ashura said, "you're going to have to get it yourself."

"Bah." Edwin didn't stir, instead glancing around. "Perhaps we should look into staying somewhere else, where they have properly trained and attentive servants. This place has it's…delights, certainly, but…"

"Looked like you had a delightful night."

Alora chortled and Edwin's eyes sharpened. "I trust yours was a delight as well, finally having the space to tumble about with your new plaything?" His head inclined in Durlyle's direction as he spoke.

Ashura just gave him a blank look. "Hm?" Edwin pondered her. "You _didn't_ bed him? Did he prove inadequate? Too inexperienced, especially after you've tasted delight at the hands of a true master?"

Ashura rolled her eyes.

"There is another advantage to staying at a place like this, in that case. Perhaps the working women here can teach the young man some things. I've plenty of coin to pay them-"

"Edwin!"

"I shall hold my tongue on that front. So long as you do not bring up a certain serving wench again…"

"Fair enough."

True to his word, Edwin changed the subject, starting to complain about the food being served just as Durlyle walked over and found a seat. Ashura was happy to hear it too; for a moment she'd thought Edwin would get braggadocious and go on and on about the little _incident_ that'd happened between them back in Ulgoth's Beard, after they'd escaped the magical prison.

Instead he just prattled on about the 'abysmal fare' laid out before them, and so their afternoon went.

* * *

Down a flight of steps beneath the _Sea's Bounty_ taproom, where you'd expect to find a lauder or a wine cellar, there was instead an earthen chamber dominated by a heated bathing pool. Festhalls, you know? The places often have lavish bath facilities with décor to match; places for the guests to gather and frolic.

This chamber had the feel of a hot springs grotto: the pool a naturalistic, uneven shape and the walls built from irregularly cut stone. Interlocking stonework covered the floor, haphazard at a glance, under a ceiling of loamy earth buttressed by wooden beams. Stone benches lined the front section, there were little cubby-holes all up and down the walls, and a bronze placard by the entrance named the place _The Smuggler's Hideaway_ , some small text beneath claiming that this cellar had once been used for just that purpose.

Doubtful. It all looked rather artificial. The whole of the _Bounty,_ really, seemed to be pirate-themed mostly for the sake of drawing customers in.

Little lamps dangling from ropes lit the chamber in soft amber, adding to the sense that one was stepping into a mysterious cavern —minus any actual hazards of course. It was clever too, Ashura realized as she walked down through the warmth and steam, to keep a soft and flattering light on a place where naked bodies would be displayed. There wasn't a huge crowd at this point in the afternoon, but a few folks longed about on the benches, and there were some more in the water.

At one bench sat the three Veloun women with partly shaved heads, wrapped in towels and sharing a water pipe. A bench on the other side of the room had been covered with a bathing cloth, and a big, hairsuit half-orcish fellow laid across it on his belly, eyes closed and beefy arms crossed beneath his chin while a svelte man with pointed ears and delicately elvish features leaned in and rubbed his back, neither of them wearing a stitch.

Ashura was fairly certain that she'd seen the half-elf up at the bar the previous night, dressed to provoke and flirting with the guests. An attendant here, most likely. The fact that he was impeccably groomed and impressively well-endowed suggested that as well. ( _Ahem_ ). She glanced away before he caught her staring.

She'd been in a place like this once before, back in the festhalls beneath Baldur's Gate that were collectively called The Undercellars. Hadn't been in the mood to relax back then. While naked folk had cavorted nearby, laughing and smoking, she'd just been grateful for the darkness in the bathing hall, and used the waters to wash off the grime that she'd picked up in the dungeons of the Flaming Fist. Steaming water had soothed her aches, at least, but she could have done without the company that night.

Seemed Shar-Teel was using this pool for about the same purpose. Her hazel-blond hair and sharp nose poked out just above the water's surface, at the center of the pool, steam simmering up all around. Ashura gave her companion a curt nod and wave, got a nod back, then made her way to one of the adjacent walls. Towels had been neatly rolled up inside the cubbies, and clothes had been stuffed in some of them as well. She followed the local custom and undressed.

A couple moments later Ashura stepped over to the water's edge, then down and into the pool. There was a gradual slope on this side, and over at the other end a few people were sitting and soaking, their backs against the far edge. Trays had been laid out over there as well, with soaps and jars of salts and oils. As with the rest of the place, the bathing pool's floor was made of interlocking stones, with some grates at either end where the hot water was cycled through.

Wading over to the middle, Ashura knelt and went chin-deep. The gentle warmth eased her muscles. "Ah."

"That's what I said," Shar-Teel murmured, lips just above the surface. "Think I'm going to live down here for a while."

"'Bout time we got to relax," Ashura agreed, standing up again to wade over to the back and get herself some supplies. Two of the other bathers were just leaning back, eyes closed and enjoying their soak. The other pair though —a man and woman— were pressed _quite_ close together, lips locked and water sloshing all around them. Festhalls, you know?

Giving the gropey couple a little distance, Ashura found a cake of some pleasant smelling soap ( _Hm. Sandalwood?_ ) and waded back to Shar-Teel. She then dipped an arm into the water and started lathering up. "After this I'm going by the temple of Oghma," she said, making conversation. "See how much the book might sell for."

Shar-Teel huffed. "They won't have the coin we're after."

"True. Just seemed like a place to start. Make some discreet inquiries."

"Ha! And which of us can do 'discrete?'"

"That is an issue." Ashura shrugged. "We've got to figure out how to unload the book somehow, though. Find some snooty collector, sell it off and split the money. You want to come along?"

"I look like an appraiser to you?" Shar-Teel barked, then looked off. After a time she spoke again. "Guess I should know a thing or two 'bout negotiating contracts, in my line of work. Looking back though, I've been complete shit at it. Practically sold myself into slavery with that dumbass scam I tried to pull on your prissy elf friend."

Ashura knew that story second hand: how Shar-Teel had tried to pull one of her duel-for-money schemes, been taunted into accepting a geas, and then (sort of) lost the fight.

"Then there was that deal your weasel of a boyfriend cut with me to rescue your sorry ass from the Flaming Fist. Was fun to finally gut some of those bastards, mind you, but I'd asked for ten trade bars worth afterwards, and Garrick ran off without paying a copper."

"Yeah. We'd lost most of our stuff in Candlekeep…"

"A little detail he didn't mention. Slippery bastard." Shar-Teel made a grumbling noise. "Men getting the better of me, one after another. Galls me to admit, but it just keeps happening."

Ashura made a noncommittal noise. Well-lathered now, she sank down into the warm embrace of the water and let the suds drift off. "Eh. We've won some big ones and lost some big ones, and here we are. Alive, at least. What's it matter how many of the winners or losers had dicks?"

"Bah. Maybe."

"And you'd get the better of more men if you took them on one at a time. Or took them on with your friends backing you up."

Shar-Teel groaned and looked off. When she spoke again her voice dripped with sarcasm: "Point taken, fearless leader."

"The smithy near here's pretty nice," Ashura went on, trying to change the subject. "I dropped your armor off."

"Thanks."

"Maybe the dwarf can put some additions on too. He's making me a new set of chain. I'll see if he can make your armor stronger while we're at it." When she got no response, Ashura pressed on. "We'll sell what we've collected. Make enough to lounge around for a long, long time."

"Yeah. Guess I should be thankful to be back on dry land. No wolves around trying to eat me and all that." Shar-Teel combed her damp hair back and then stood up, water sluicing off. Her good hand went to her shoulder, rubbing. "And maybe I'll come help you haggle over books. Get a good price, even if we have to wring it out of someone." She stretched. "Would love to stay here forever, but I'm turning into a prune." And with that she waded off.

A naked Shar-Teel looked about like you'd expect: broad, thick, blocky, speckled with a fair amount of body hair and streaked with scars. Lots and lots of scars, some just faint raised skin and others a jagged, angry red. There were a few at Shar-Teel's chest, Ashura knew, that she had put there herself, when she'd been lost in lycanthropy and lashed out with her claws.

She cringed at the thought.

* * *

Mirtul 21, 1368 D.R. (Four days earlier)

"I hate to even suggest it, miss," the rotund barkeep whispered, "but judging by your description of these folks, you may wish to make your inquiries on the…less seemly side of town. Try the sprawl between the promenade and the great bridge. Tis where adventurers tend to drift about most times. No offense."

"None taken," Imoen said with a smile.

"Just be sure to don a hood and hide your valuables if you venture down there." Leaning over the bar, his whisper lowered. "There's a massive drinking hall, where the hin shanties abut _Copper Pot Street_. Place is called _The_ _Copper Coronet_. It's the beating heart of those slums, where all the traffic and rumors pass through. If someone's heard of your friends, you're likely to find them there."

"Thank you, Pugney."

"Sure. Just be cautious if you go. And bring that towering bodyguard of yours." A sour look. "And mind, I'm just saying it's a place you might find rumors and gossip, and not suggesting you spend any coin in that cesspit. Would be a stain on my soul if I inadvertently sent business that way, or got a nice young lady like yourself caught up in such things."

"Of course." Picking up her tankard, Imoen withdrew from the bar. "Don't worry. I'm the very picture of caution and discretion."

He gave her a doubtful look, but said no more as she turned and made her way across the stone floor and back towards her table. Piano music chimed through the cozy halls of the _Mithrest Inn_ , echoing off the stonework, the red brick walls, and the rafters of the place as the diners munched and murmured. The song emanated from a bandstand that took up a full corner of the taproom, a grand piano resting upon it where a woman in an elegant red dress teased out the notes of her song.

Tallow candles flickered on the surface of each table, and torchlight danced along the walls. It was well into eveningfeast now, and the scent of piping-hot beef hung heavy in the air.

There were plates laid out at the twin tables where Imoen's companions sat. Minsc's glistened, bare and licked clean, and Viconia's rested beside it, still piled high. The drow woman absently twirled a fork in her hand, her goblet resting in the other, picking at her food, and Baeloth lounged nearby, enjoying a book. There was a buffer of empty tables between Imoen's friends and the rest of the inn, the two dark elves receiving a lot of nervous looks.

Kirian sat at the other table, nursing a tankard and glaring intently at the gaming board where they'd set up some chess pieces a while ago. She still hadn't made her move.

"Should we use a sandglass?" Imoen asked as she took her place on the other side of the board and then downed a gulp of ale. Twas a nice, heady brew.

Snorting, Kirian reached out, touched a pawn, and then withdrew her hand. She scowled at the pieces. More time passed, and Imoen took a few more quaffs from her tankard as she watched her opponent brood. Finally, after all the frustrated indecision and such, Kirian slid her rook forward three spaces. "There."

Imeon's hand flashed down, snatched up one of her knights, and took a pawn.

"Bah!"

"Still no word 'bout Shura and the others," Imoen said to the whole of them, setting her tankard down. "The barkeep asked around. Maybe they're keeping a low profile or some such, but…well, actually it's pretty hard to imagine them keeping a low profile."

"Certainly," Viconia agreed.

Nose still in his book, Baeloth spoke up. "Yes. I do so hope that your friends didn't die an insultingly ignoble death out at sea. The red wizard sounded especially…ah! Haha!" Apparently something in the book had distracted him. He seemed pleased to share it too, tapping the page and giggling:

"Imagine that! A chainmail shirt for a woman, with a big open window in the center serving no purpose but to display her cleavage and offer a giant bullseye for archers! You surfacers dream up the most amusing sorts of costumery! Not that anything else in this _Tales of the Azure Bonds_ makes a lick of sense either. Is this _really_ based on a true story?"

Imoen shrugged. "If it is, it's probably exaggerated."

Baeloth frowned down at the book. "That's just the thing. Elaborate and exciting embellishments are to be expected in any good story. Necessary, I daresay! But that's not the issue here. Instead I find myself wondering…why all of the clones appearing out of nowhere? Why the evil god made of garbage? And now the halfling's head has sprouted into something like a beholder, but not quite…What?! Why? Seems a random and scattershot form of storytelling. I can think of many ways to tighten it up and make it more entertaining."

"By adding more explosions?"

"Always! That's the first thing you do. Mind you, there are some good points too. I rather like the halfling bard. And the sentient dinosaur. Any story can be elevated with a sentient dinosaur."

While Baeloth had been talking Kirian had toyed with her chess pieces. She currently had a knight between her fingers, and now she set it down on a space. Didn't let go, though. Instead she glared and pondered the board. A moment passed, then she put the piece back where it had been.

"So," Imoen said, "I was thinking we should go exploring some more tomorrow. Maybe see some of the other parts of town and ask if anyone's seen a red wizard or a purple halfling."

Viconia looked up from her meal, her face sour. "A brief excursion, I pray. I am quite enjoying this luxurious space we've carved out for ourselves."

"Well yeah, we'll keep the bedrooms."

"Good. Be cautious as well. The way the people here speak, the portions of this city that spill out close to the river are rife with danger. Foul smelling, too."

"You afraid?" Kirian teased.

"I have seen things that would curdle the blood in your veins, young one. Such experience breeds caution and perspective. Tis one of the reasons that I have never, in all my life, come close to staring a basalisk in the eye."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm never going to live that one down am I-"

"I have also never come close to being strangled by a doppelganger," Viconia went on. She then coughed. "Do you remember who healed your throat, after that little incident?"

Kirian glared for a long moment.

" _Ahem_ ," Imoen cut in. She tried to change the subject. "So Kirian, are ya going to ever make a move?"

"Fine!" Kirian snapped, moving the same knight that she'd been toying with before. This time she let it go.

Zig! Imoen took the knight with a bishop.

"Oh blast it all!" Kirian pulled at her hair and glared down at the board, head tilting this way and that. "You…" Her ranting slowed. "Wait." Her head cocked, then she was smiling, her hand stretching out over her queen. "You totally left yourself open…" Her hand stopped, just hovering there. She shook her head. "No. This has to be a trap. You set it all up."

"Eh." Imoen shrugged. "Haven't really been thinking ahead."

Kirian snorted. "Yeah. Sure." Her hand withdrew and her arms crossed. Once again she glared down at the board.

Imoen glanced down there too. _Ha. Whoops._ 'Bout seven more moves and Kirian would have a checkmate locked up. She just had to move her queen a smidge over there. Kirian didn't do that though: instead her hand drifted and hovered over one piece after the next, second and triple and then quadruple-guessing herself. Looked like it would be a long game.


	4. Tourist Traps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Imoen channels Spider-Man and Minsc channels Drax the Destroyer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I ended up writing three whole chapters without any over-the-top, graphic violence. Think that might be a record. Urm. There’s graphic violence and gore ahead though. Hope that’s a fair warning.

_"It was supposed to be a simple smash and grab. Ain't ever anything simple in this life though, is there? By the end of the night the job had turned into a running battle through half the South Ward."-_ Anonymous, _The Elf with the Killer Eyes: A Mirt the Moneylender Tale_

 

* * *

Mirtul 27, 1369 D.R.

Nighttime at _The Sea's Bounty_ was always party time! Oh yes!

Leastways, it was party time for anyone fortunate enough to have some ancient pirate gold to spend. Alora _had_ noticed that the bouncers made a big show of throwing out the sorts who couldn't pay. _'Over the balcony with you!'_ was the common threat, though they didn't actually throw anyone _that_ hard.

She also had to admit that most of partying around here was _not_ the sort a young woman of upstanding virtue such as herself should ever witness or get involved in. Seriously! Yuck to some of the goings on in these festhall places!

But the singing and the dancing! That was so much fun! Especially now that she'd found some friendly buskers, and paid 'em to accompany the rounds of drinking songs she and the crew of _The Rosy Dawn_ got up to. Jangly guitar music and tapping drums filled the air tonight as Alora leaned shoulder-to-shoulder with her sailor-friends, belting out the last few versus of their latest song:

_"And that's why you'll hear old Johnny cryin'_  
_When the winds they start to roar!_  
_Oh that's why you'll hear old Johnny cryin'_  
_When the winds the start to roar!"_

At the end their flagons clinked together and a cheer went up around the table, the Chultan crewmates backslapping and laughing. Oh what fun this was! Learning new songs! The hall bouncing with laughter and tapping feet! It was great!

The singing had ended, but the music carried on, the young locals who patronized the _Bounty_ spinning across the little dance floor that they'd staked out at one end of the hall. They were doing one of those twirly, hip-shaky, local dances that were big in Athkatla at the moment, and Ash and her young wolf-fellow twirled right in their midst. Ash had taken the lead (naturally), and she was _maybe_ clinging a bit closer than the dance actually called for, rosy-cheeked from a lot of rum. Durlyle didn't seem to mind his backside getting fondled, though. He laughed and played and spun, the couple pressing nose-to-nose.

Ha! And even Delainy, shy-wolf-girl that she was, had joined in the dancing nearby. She twirled and twisted hand-in-hand with one of the local boys, a bit more stiff and polite-like than the other dancers.

Hiring the buskers had been the perfect plan, especially with how tense some of the locals were getting. There'd been a lot of nervous talk in the air about some magic event a week ago that had smashed up a whole block down in the slums, and apparently last night there'd been a fire in the same neighborhood that the Cowled Wizards had moved in to contain. _'There's magic goings on that they're not telling us about!'_ was the popular complaint from a lot of the locals. The dancing made for a good distraction, though.

Even Edwin seemed to be relaxing a _bit_ this eve. Not dancing of course, but he was having an animated conversation with his barmaid friend and a small audience of locals; making lots of wild gestures with his hands. Probably telling another one of his stories about the wonders of Thay.

_Urm._ Though…some of Edwin's finger-wagging was making people cringe. Looked like he might be threatening to incinerate everyone again. Oh well, at least the barmaid was still smiling and laughing at 'em. Good to see that someone else also knew not to take Edwin all serious-like.

So everyone was having fun and making new friends! Except for maybe Shar-Teel. She didn't seem to be around at the moment, and had been a big broody sourpuss lately. Such a shame.

The sailors were talkin' 'bout what to sing next, but Alora had to excuse herself and slip down off her stool. Ale, ya know? It goes right through you. Hopefully there wouldn't be a big line in front of the privy room again.

Landing on the barroom floor, she started forward and found herself blinking a bit. Apparently some of that ale had gone straight to her head instead of her bladder, and she felt a bit floatier than she would have liked. Had to make sure that both her feet were pointing in the right direction before she started wobbling and weaving her way past the legs of the big folk. Always got to be mindful of those. Wouldn't want to get crushed.

She shouldered her way through and out of the main room, then turned down the hall that led back to the privy chambers. There wasn't a line in front of the doors, but there were a couple of people standing about, and the sight of 'em stopped Alora in her tracks.

_Well now!_ Appeared that this was where Shar-Teel had gotten off to, and with some fellow, no less! The big woman leaned against a wall, looming over the man.

Despite the insistence of her bladder, Alora pondered retreating then and there to give them both some space. Not every day you see Ess-Tee making a friend, let alone a male one _._ Alora didn't move fast enough, though; Ess-Tee had already spotted her, and was giving her a nod. The big woman then reached out and clasped the shorter man's hand, whispering something.

Alora frowned. That whisper didn't seem particularly friendly-like. Harsh, even. All business. Much as she wanted to hope, it _really_ didn't look like Ess-Tee had found herself a boyfriend here.

The shorter fellow then nodded, pulled his hand free of Shar-Teel's, and started down the hall. Alora’s eyes widened at the sight of his face. _Ack!_ This was the guy who'd appeared out of thin air a few days ago to scold her about 'freelancing!' As he passed by, the man spared her the slightest of glances, but she kept her eyes on him 'til he disappeared 'round the bend. He just seemed like the sort you never turn your back on.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Alora asked.

"Business," Shar-Teel replied, approaching from behind. "Same as when we first met him. Representing the people who rule this place." She peered down at Alora, eyes narrow and probing. "You _do_ know who those are, right?"

Alora cocked her head. She didn't.

Leaning down, Shar-Teel pitched her voice low. "You're really that dumb? He's one of the Shadow Thieves of Amn. They run these docks. And this city. They practically rule this whole damned nation. I figured if we're going to be living here a while it'd be a good idea to get on their good side. You might want to do the same. If you get in with them maybe they'll let you go back to snagging people's purses."

Alora kept on peering up, then the lights came on. "Oh! I get it. Like how I used to bring Black Lily and Narlen Darkwalk bottles of firewine and mumbleberry pies to keep 'em friendly."

Shar-Teel gave her one of her toothy, wolfish smiles. "Ha! Yeah, that's about right."

"So you gave that guy something? I didn't see any pie."

"You've got your ways of making friends, and I've got mine."

 

* * *

Mirtul 26, 1369 D.R. (One day earlier)

"Now that was some entertainment!" Baeloth proclaimed. Rare and unexpected praise, coming from him; Imoen had assumed he'd start complaining and picking the drama apart soon as the curtain fell. But nope.

Then again, the play they'd just watched _had_ been all about diabolical intrigue (and put on by a troupe of actual tieflings, no less). And it _had_ ended with Mephistopheles, Lord of the Eighth Hell himself, winning everything. The playbill had named it a tragedy in five acts, but Baeloth seemed to have the driest eyes in the house and a wide grin on his face. He led the way up the stairs and out of the basement-playhouse, twirling his staff.

This would be their fifth night in Athkatla, and there had still been no sign of Ashura or any of the folk she'd last been seen with. Imoen was running out of places to canvass, too. A few days ago they'd done a thorough search of the docks (Shura would have come in by ship, after all), and more recently they'd poked around the slums.

Shura had always loved theater shows, so _The Five Flagons Inn_ and its basement seemed like a natural place to check out. Unfortunately no one upstairs or downstairs had seen any sign of a scowly girl of about twenty with raven-black hair, a scowly woman in her thirties with blonde hair and rakish facial scars, a scowly Red Wizard of Thay, or a remarkably unscowly halfling who dyed her hair all fuchsia.

Well, at least Amn had plenty of things to distract a mind from futile searches.

"So," Imoen said, glancing about. "The rest of you enjoy the play?"

Minsc looked thoughtful. "Confusing," he admitted. "There were villains aplenty, but no heroing was done."

"You should probably stick to puppet shows down at the promenade," Kirian suggested.

As always, Minsc was oblivious to sarcasm. "Oh, certainly so! The one with the dragon Tiamet and the little barbarian was great fun!"

They passed on through the crowded halls of the inn, then out the door and into the night. Amber streetlamps painted the fog that rolled in over the bridge's edge, the stars and moon all clouded out and the buildings beyond the _Flagons_ unlit and brooding. Everything in sight here rested on the surface of the great bridge that spanned the Alandor River, the structure practically a town unto itself, lined with homes, shops, shanties, and a couple of taverns. _The Five Flagons_ was built over the bridge's central pillar, in fact.

No lights, and few people out and about. The play'd lasted longer than Imoen had thought. She started to move forward, then noticed that Viconia was holding fast by the doorway, all bristled up in that cat-like manner she got sometimes. "Hm?"

"There are eyes upon us," Viconia stated.

Imoen gave the street a closer examination, willing the _infravision_ enchantment in one of her rings to activate. Nearby, a pair of women in heavy makeup shared a pipe and some words under one of the lamps. Three men in ragged cloaks huddled around a brazier over by the inn's hitching post. Beyond them, the damp flagstones stretched and dark alleyways gaped. All Imoen's heat vision picked up on, though, was the glow of distant chimneys. No warm bodies lurked in the dark.

"You've been saying that every ten minutes," Kirian complained. "Of course there's unfriendly eyes staring, in a city like this."

Viconia gave it all one more slow survey, then made a huffing noise and started to move. "True."

Kirian filed in right beside the drow, resting a hand on her sword's hilt and adding: "We'll watch every alley. Like always. Hopefully a roar and a swing from the big guy will be enough to scare anyone off."

On their earlier forays through the city they'd been stalked by local gangs a few times: twice along the docks, and one time coming out of _The Copper Coronet_ at night (Pugney hadn't been kidding about that place!) A raised sword and a berserker scream from Minsc had sent one group of would-be muggers scampering, and another lot had run once he actually came at them swinging. Another time the sight of Viconia stepping out of a shadow, unexpected and unmasked, had been enough to scare the stalkers off before they even got close.

No strangers appeared this time though –to be shouted at or startled– as the companions passed from one lamppost to the next. Imoen kept an eye on the spaces between the buildings, her hand ready to snatch and nock an arrow should the need arise. Ahead of her, Minsc stood tall, along with Baeloth and his twirling skull-staff. Kirian and Viconia trailed along at her back. (You could always count on Viconia to end up at the tail of a procession).

To their left the edge of the bridge was visible between some of the buildings, rickety walkways climbing down into the misty dark where the quays were hidden from view. The trickle and churn of the waters was an ever-present noise. Taller and taller buildings loomed to their right, and beyond them ran an ancient fortification wall, also hidden in darkness and mist.

Ahead, the outlines of the lampposts and the houses grew less distinct. Seemed that they were stepping into thicker fogs. Soon the railing and the stairways were swallowed up by white and gray. The riverside homes disappeared shortly thereafter.

"It will be good to be out of this soup," Minsc commented. His voice seemed to boom a bit less than usual. "It has the stench of evil about it."

Kirian snorted. "How can fog smell like anything? Let alone-"

"No," Viconia hissed, stopping in her tracks. "He is correct." Her voice sounded farther away than it should, and Imoen realized then that she could no longer hear the river. She also realized that she'd picked and nocked an arrow without thinking.

Baeloth had halted as well, his staff raised and his body stiff. "Indeed." There was something queer about his voice. "An obvious ambuscade." Each word he spoke seemed fainter and farther off, and now a wall of gray came blowing in to block him from sight. Fog rolled in from every angle; billowing up from the cobbles and seeping down from the sky. The lamplight was about gone now.

The stupid fog even seemed to press at Imoen's arms and her turning head; a heavy, living blanket that made it hard to move and get a bearing with her bow. For an instant the whole world was cast in disorienting gray, then –thanks to her ring– she picked up glimpses of red streaking by. There were silhouettes of body heat out there, though the coolness of the fog distorted them a bit.

She turned, stretching her bowstring and following the figures best she could. Her butt bumped against something solid, but for whatever reason it didn't startle her none. Somehow she just knew that the sturdy bulk was Minsc, and the big guy seemed to understand too. They both shifted and braced their feet, keeping back to back. After Durlag’s Tower and all, well…they’d danced this dance many times now.

Ghosts of body heat bounded about, none resolving into a clear silhouette or quite moving in close. She'd have to be careful about discerning friend from foe, too. Regardless, she drew her bowstring taut. First thug who appeared distinct was getting a face full of arrow!

There was a popping sound somewhere in the soup. Viconia shouted.

Elsewhere, Baeloth was speaking. Imoen caught a few words. "…there?" "…I'm pointing!"

"Got it!" Kirian shouted back. Her next words came in fainter, but it sounded like an evocation.

A wraith of red heat-glow moved across Imoen's field of vision, and it wore a stranger's face. Good enough. Her arrow flew.

Instead of smacking into the stranger's chest, though, the shaft twisted sharp and drifted off, as if taken by the wind. The wraith shuffled back and vanished. _Darn!_ This fog really was solid stuff.

Imoen fought to string a second arrow, and as she did she heard a muffled thump and whoosh up ahead. Something pierced the fog, sharp and arching in her direction, but it slowed and twisted long before it reached her, her heart somehow doing a summersault of mortal terror and then one of adulated relief all in about one beat.

The object was a crossbow bolt. She watched it drop and roll on the flagstones far to her left. Seemed the fog was a double-edged sword: she couldn't see or hit the ambushers who'd conjured it up, but the baddies on the outside couldn't hit her for shit either. And thank Mask for that!

All of a sudden the gray wall lit up in an electric-blue, and a rip-roaring _KA-CRACK_ pierced the fog. The thunderclap that followed rattled the stonework under Imoen's feet, and as the noise rolled by the mists started to dissipate, falling away in tatters just as fast as they'd sprung up.

The red wraith of bodyheat that Imoen had been following resolved into a clear figure: a man dressed in an arming jacket and shouldering a crossbow. Seemed a bit startled that his cover had just up and vanished.

Imoen didn't hesitate; her bowstring thumped and the arrow's enchanted broadhead punched clean through the stranger's chest. The fellow's knees knocked and his crossbow went off as he dropped, bouncing a bolt off the flagstones close to Imoen's feet.

From somewhere behind came the sound of a second crossbow thumping, and Imoen felt Minsc flinch. The big guy let out an understated: "Yowch!"

Seemed that getting hit just made him mad, though. Imoen found herself shoved forward by Minsc's next motion, stumbling to keep her feet while his battle cry rang in her ears, and by the time she'd spun around Minsc had already dashed over to the second crossbowman, greatsword swinging.

The man had dropped his flatbow to raise a knife. A pretty useless gesture though: the hand that gripped that knife was already severed and spinning up into the air, followed by a gush of blood, followed by the man's head. Hand, severed head, and flailing body all dropped to cobbles in a messy heap as Minsc swept by.

Ten paces farther up the street a woman with dreadlocks and dark clothes leaned back against some rain barrels. Her limbs were twisted and stiff, her eyes were wide and glassy, and smoke rolled up from the corners of her mouth and the hole that Kirian's _lightning_ spell had blasted through her chest. Kirian and Baeloth stood on the street nearby, back to back, with a violet nimbus of protective magic hanging over them both. A couple of arrows lay on the ground near their feet.

Looked like the arrows had been fired from the west side of the street. Imoen started moving, eyes searching for the archers as she ran to take cover behind Baeloth's spell.

Some movement caught her attention as she went: two figures racing away from their position and towards a maze of rickety crates. One of 'em seemed misshapen; all hunched under an object that was slung over its shoulders like a sack. Some wisps of white hair hung loose from that 'sack,' and on the other end bobbed Viconia's boots.

Viconia was being carried off! Drownapped!

Without really thinking, Imoen found herself zagging around and racing after, shouting something dumb like "Viconia!" or "Stop!" or "Put her down!" or maybe all of that at once, the enchantment on her boots kicking in and doubling her pace. She'd a sense that Minsc was bellowing at the drownappers too, somewhere behind her.

Boxes tumbled down to block her path. She vaulted over. She'd an arrow strung again, but the only clear shot was at the encumbered drownapper, and she didn't want to risk hitting Viconia. _Dang!_

There was a whistle and a clunk at the flagstones near her feet. She skidded and darted to the side. They were shooting at her!

She spotted the archer, up on a rooftop! He had some sort of heavy armor on, and he was nocked another arrow. Imoen tilted her bow up and loosed, then flung her body to the side. The arrows practically crossed midair. Hers fluttered up and dinged off the bowman's breastplate. His whistled by her nose, near close enough for the fletching to tickle.

Behind her boxes smashed and scattered. Minsc was charging through.

She bent her head down and kept running, flat-out. It was just a couple of heartbeats' race over to the mudbrick wall of the little house that the archer was using, and once she reached it the overhang of the roof sheltered her from a direct shot. Soon as she was there she slung her bow over her shoulder.

Both her palms pressed flat against the wall, and she focused her will and whispered three words. Her hands stuck to the surface. She lifted a knee and that stuck as well. Hand over hand, she started _spider climbing_ up.

Above her, the bowstring thumped again. Likely he was shooting at Minsc. Hopefully he'd missed. She'd climbed up to the lip of the overhang now, and she grabbed onto it with one hand. Making sure that her feet were stickied good to the wall, she then extended her legs and pulled up.

She found herself looking up between the bowman’s feet. Good. She waved her free hand and shouted to get his attention: "Hey! Dickhead!"

That did it. He bent down and loomed large, armor glinting in the lamplight. Hopefully he was surprised to see her up here, though she didn't pause to check; just fanned her fingers up at his face and snapped out the words of an incantation quick as she could.

A blast of dancing colors lit up the bowman's face, and he started blinking and shaking his head like crazy. A seizure followed, then his body slackened, overbalanced, and Imoen swung down under the overhang and pressed close just before the bowman dropped by, face first. Made an ungodly clatter when he struck the street.

Using both hands, Imoen swung back up and climbed fully onto the rooftop. She raced across the tarred shingles, eyes sweeping the streets 'till she caught a glimpse of Viconia's swishing hair down below.

A leap carried her over to an adjacent roof, and as she landed she shrugged her bow into her hand and plucked a fresh arrow. The drownappers were passing through a narrow alley now, winding 'round piles of garbage and stacked-up crates. Up here, Imoen had a clearer sight on 'em. She drew her bowstring back and aimed at the figure who wasn't lugging Viconia, skipped over another narrow gap between then rooftops, then took her shot.

The arrow brushed by the stranger's shoulder and struck the alley wall. _Dang!_

Skidding, the stranger turned to look in Imoen's direction while the one carrying Viconia just kept running. A sword slipped free of the stranger's belt, and Imoen aimed her next arrow. She didn't aim fast enough, though.

In a blur the stranger charged out of view, shielded briefly by the angle of the slate roof, then reappeared with an acrobatic leap. Imoen tried to track the figure with her bow, but it all went by so fast: a leap propelled the stranger off the wall and onto a stack of crates opposite, then a bound off the crumbling stack sent the stranger high enough to alight on Imoen's rooftop. The short blade in the stranger's hand had a ruby quartz tinge to it, and a gem at the pommel pulsed with red light.

When the stranger landed Imoen let fly, but her opponent hadn't stopped moving, and with a dip they managed to swing past the arrow, cloak billowing and cowl falling back. Without the hood some features were revealed: a feminine cast to the face, pointed elven ears, golden hair bound up behind the stranger's head, and eyes that seemed to have a distinct, mischievous twinkle, even here in battle. The lower half of the woman's face was covered by a scarf, but there was something familiar about her.

No time to ponder that now, though, with a blade coming at Imoen’s face! She ducked and swung her bow like a club, darkwood rapped against ruby-steel, then she reeled away and wove to avoid another flash of the sword. Then another. A stab nicked her sleeve. She managed to parry and deflect the next blow with a smack of her bow's limb.

Meantime her other hand was fumbling for a real weapon. She could have pulled her dagger, but the fire wand seemed like a better idea. Always bring a wand to a sword fight, when you can!

Pointblank, she leveled the little golden rod, barked out a command word, and let it do its thing, catching the half-elf square in the chest with a blast of flame. The ugly tang of burning leather struck Imoen's nose instantly, while the half-elf screamed and scampered back, trying to roll away from the beam. Imoen turned her wrist to aim and follow (it's always best with this spell to keep the pressure on), but her foe had a devil's quickness, and in less than a heartbeat she was over the crest of the rooftop and out of Imoen's line of sight.

That damned, superhuman nimbleness. It had to be some sort of enchantment.

The fireblast sputtered out, and soon as it was gone the woman launched back onto her feet and spun to face Imoen once again, her undercoat smoking and charred. Her scarf had unwound and halfway dropped, revealing barred teeth, and now that it was uncovered Imoen recognized the woman's face. This was the merchant from the marketplace who'd fawned all over Viconia.

"You flamin' bitch!" the half-elf snapped, no honey in her words now or twinkle in her eyes.

_'You're the flaming one!'_ would have _totally_ been the perfect thing to say here! Perfect setup and everything. Imoen was sorely tempted, but arcane words were a _much_ better idea, so she snapped out a quick incantation, stowing her wand and weaving her fingers.

The half-elf with the gleaming ruby murder-sword was charging her at the same time, full-speed and aiming for a clean gut-stab. The woman's footsteps thundered…then slowed…slowed…and then slowed some more. Now it looked to Imoen like her foe was charging through molasses. Time bogged down and a sugary rush of energy ran through her veins, her toes curling at the thrill of it.

_Swish!_ She pivoted aside from the sluggish stab. _Fwing!_ Her dagger slipped its sheath. With a rush and a lunge she stabbed down and into the half-elf's outstretched forearm.

Blood welled up and the woman snarled, pulling back and swiveling away. She retaliated with a wide slash. Imoen danced aside. _Swish - swish - swish!_ Three rapid swipes from the ruby sword —and they were fast and precise— followed, but Imoen kept dancing and weaving. _No catching Imoen the Quick!_

Although, quick as she was now thanks to the spell, she still couldn't manage to circle the woman and get through her guard. For a time that ruby-steel and the point of Imoen's dagger zipped about, dinging and scraping once or twice, but never sinking into anything. A well-timed foot-stomp and a wide chop forced Imoen to leap backwards.

That bought the woman some space. She used it to whip a vial out from her pocket and draw it to her lips, popping the cork with her thumb and then chugging it down. _Glup. Gulp!_

At the same time Imoen heard some commotion behind her. "You!" someone was bellowing from an adjacent window. "Get the blazes off of Richero's roof!" Some object flew and crashed near her feet. No time to see what'd been thrown, though. At the same instant the half-elf had thrown the empty vial at Imoen's face.

She ducked under the projectile, then sprang, trying to get close and fast. Once she landed she kept low. Her dagger blurred before her. She ducked under a slash —an opening— and made another stab for the woman's overextended swordarm. The dagger bit in, even deeper than before, and Imoen used her other hand to grip her foe's wrist and hold on this time.

Least it hadn't been a potion of _haste_ that the woman had downed, and now-

Something solid and heavy as a sledge caught Imoen square in the gut (the half-elf's knee— _oof!_ ), bending her forward. Little pins and larger spikes ran through her lungs, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. At the same time a grip —hard as a vice— caught her shoulder, and in a rush of wind and shock she found herself flying backwards.

Midflight her hip struck the edge of a chimney ( _owch!_ ) spinning her body and breaking off chunks of brick, then her back was scraping the slate rooftop and then she was rolling over and over and there was the edge looming ahead and-

She managed to stop herself _just_ short of going over, the enchantment on her palms helping as she gripped and stuck like a spider. Everywhere on her body was blazing pain, 'cept for her abdomen, which had just gone numb. She tried to catch her breath. Forced herself to look up.

At the pinnacle of the rooftop the half-elf stood and straightened. Beside her the chimney tottered. The half-elf had dropped her sword (lots of blood dribbled down her wounded arm; maybe she couldn't grip it proper), but now was using her uninjured hand to grab the lip of the chimney. A kick loosened the brickwork further, then she used both hands to _heave_ the whole thing up and off, raising it over her head.

( _Guess I know what was in that potion that she quaffed_ ).

For a moment —one that seemed to stretch into infinity— the woman loomed up there, holding four feet's worth of loosely mortared brick over her head. Then she bent back and-

Imoen didn't stick around to watch the super-human flinging go down. Nosir!

Instead she rolled right over and off the roof, dropping her dagger and flinging her hands and feet out. One hand managed to catch the roof's overhang, sticking to it on account of her wall-climbing spell, then she swung underneath, stuck to the wall, and pressed the whole of her body against it for all she was worth.

There was a hellish crack and scrape up above her, the roof and the wall rattling as the chimney smacked down. Everything shook. Clumps of jagged brick plunged down, dropping past Imoen to crash into the alley. The clatter was earsplitting.

Eyes closed, she just kept clinging to the wall. _Be tiny. Be unseen._ She willed the ring on her left hand to activate, a wave of illusion rolling over and winking her out of sight.

Eventually the clatter died down. Next, she heard and felt footsteps up on the roof's edge. The half-elf was looking down. _Hopefully_ she just saw the pile of bricks piled in the alleyway. _Hopefully_ she would assume that Imoen had been crushed under those.

Whatever the case, after a pause, there was a swivel followed by receding footsteps.

After a time Imoen drew a long, deep breath. Couldn't wait around, though. She lizard-climbed up to the top of the roof, looked about, and caught a glimpse of the half-elf's figure several rooftops ahead.

Unseen now, she followed.

 

* * *

With one more leap and a quick, midair chant, Imoen drifted down, quiet as a snowflake. She alighted on the street with her bow and arrow in hand, glancing about.

_Dern_. No sign of the woman she'd been chasing across several blocks of slum. Seemed like Ms. Drownapper had dropped to this street and then just vanished. Maybe she'd caught on that she was being tailed? Imoen had tried to keep low and use cover after her invisibility had winked out, but…

Scuffing footsteps from the other side of the street drew Imoen's attention, and she whirled and aimed her bow. Thankfully it was a familiar, bald head that broke through the shadows. Minsc lurched to a halt once he spotted her, looking about. "Which way did they go?" he asked.

"They?"

"The stolen lady, of course. And the villain carrying her!" He started forward, cautious steps this time as he scanned the vacant street. There was a gash in Minsc's splinted armor, a bit under the left breast, and the entire front of him was drenched in blood. Hard to tell how much of it was his own, though; he didn't seem particularly bothered or winded. Kirian was emerging now from the same side-street that Minsc had taken, and Baeloth walked a few paces behind.

"I ain't seen no one," Imoen admitted. "I was trailin' the other…urm…villain a moment ago, but she vanished down here."

"Hm." Minsc seemed to sniff the air. "Well, Minsc and Boo are the greatest of trackers. We shall pick up the trail!"

He started marching down the street, and Imoen fell in behind. "Don't see how there can be much of a trail on cobblestones," she groused, "but…" _Oh. Hm._ Minsc had stopped by a rusty sewer grate, and now he sheathed his sword and bent down.

With a heave, the big guy lifted the grate by its bars and threw it aside. "Boo says this was disturbed just moments ago. It is here they went!" He didn't leave it up for debate; instead bracing his hands against the edge of the hole, wriggling a bit, and then dropping into the darkness.

"Oh, of course," Kirian said as she drew up to the opening. "It's not a proper urban adventure without a plunge into the sewers. We've been overdue." With a flick of her wrist and an arcane word she conjured up a wisp of magelight, set it hovering over her head, and then followed Minsc down.

Imoen took a deep breath (figuring it might be the last pristine one she got for a while), then scurried after them. _Ooo boy. Dear Mask, by your clever tongue and clever feet, please don't let this drop lead directly down into sewage._

Thankfully it didn't. Some convenient rungs ran down the wall, leading to a raised stone walkway that overlooked a slimy, burbling canal. The tunnels reminded Imoen a smidge of the sewers beneath Baldur's Gate, though these were a bit more spacious. Smelled about the same.

Corroded metal pipes lined the walls and crisscrossed the ceiling, and the central channel was clogged here and there with old barrels and wads of trash. There was a spot a few strides away where an old, sturdy board crossed the stream and bridged the left walkway with one on the right. Seemed like it had been placed intentionally. There were other bridges up and down the way.

"Come!" Minsc insisted, pointing upstream and starting to march. They all filed in behind him, Kirian's bobbing light illuminated their faces and the path ahead.

"So uh..?" Imoen said after a few steps. She was trying to keep her voice low, but there sure was an echo down here.

"They went this way," Minsc said, his voice ringing off the walls 'cause he didn't give a damn. "The dark lady and her captor."

Sure didn't seem to be any sign of a trail on the slimy stonework, but Imoen was no ranger. As she recalled, Minsc had a knack for tracking damsels in distress, too. Or maybe it was his pet hamster that always sniffed 'em out. "If you say so. We could maybe be quieter though-"

"Bah! Let evil hear us coming, and quake in its boots!"

Imeon didn't say no more, for fear of just provoking louder shouts. She loved the big guy, really she did, but it was a dern shame he had no concept of the element of surprise.

"We _are_ heading in the right direction," Baeloth whispered behind her. "Baffling as it is. I would assume that the big buffoon wouldn't be able to tell up from down, yet we're actually-"

"How do you know?" Kirian asked.

Baeloth gave her a skeptical look. "Is the trail not obvious to you?"

"Pfft. You're no tracker. I know you drow love to pretend that you're the best at literally everything, but I'm not biting."

"Well, I'm no tracker. Tis true. But…" With a theatrical flourish Baeloth made a little vial appear between his fingers. There was some wispy white stuff inside. "…a _location_ spell is simple enough, provided you have a little memento from the target." His fingers twirled and the vial disappeared. Not actual magic; Imoen recognized a sleight of hand when she saw it.

"You collected her _hair_? Just in case you needed to track her?"

"Well, of course. To track her, or to give to the summoned hellhounds to sniff, in the probable event that she betrays us."

"Did you…collect hair from all of us?"

Baeloth gave her a puzzled look. "Well, the big buffoon doesn't have much hair, so I settled for fingernail clippings. But…you _haven't_ collected effects from all of your allies and enemies? Truly?! I thought you fancied yourself a mage."

Kirian opened her mouth, shut it, scowled, and they went on in silence for a time.

Eventually Minsc took a sharp turn and led them over one of the brittle duckboard bridges across the sludgy water, then down a side-passage. There were no open channels here (and the stench abated _slightly_ ), though pipes ran along the walls. The drip from condensation running off the pipes echoed through the dark, and there were spots where the steady trickle had worn and warped the floor.

Head constantly turning and posture hunched, Minsc moved along like a bloodhound, sometimes pausing to examine the points where the passages branched before choosing and continuing on. This whole place seemed a labyrinth, the sewer tunnels cutting through what looked like ancient catacombs, then back over channels of mucky water and modern pipework.

Imoen had lost track of time and the number of bends that they'd taken when Minsc slowed once again, cocking his head and listening. _Hm. Yeah._ It seemed there were voices filtering in from ahead, muffled and indistinct.

The tunnel bent sharply, then branched. Plenty of corners to sneak around, and Imoen was reaching out to tap the big guy on the shoulder and suggest just that when he started marching once again, his pace picking up with every step.

He was a hound on the scent. Little to do but follow.

Beyond a zig, a zag, and another zig, the tunnel took a steep climb up some old stone steps. A sturdy wooden door stood on the landing at the top, apparently barred. Seemed whoever had been talking was on the other side.

Minsc marched right up the stairs, clenched his fist, and pounded on the door.

Some man on the other side called out in answer: "Eldarin? Good." A little slat opened up at eye level. "Was worried you and the others…" The voice tailed off. "Uh. You're not Eldarin…"

"No. We are Minsc and Boo."

There was a pause. "Good for you. What brings you to our door, then? Don't exactly get lots of traffic down here."

"(Beshaba's kiss,)" a second voice —a woman's— hissed from the other side. "(Suna and Rork got themselves trailed! Bloody fools)."

Bracing his hands against the door, Minsc leaned in. "We come seeking a dark lady with white hair. She was stolen by villains most foul!"

"You don't say."

"I do say!"

"Uh. Yeah. Let me just find the latch then. It's right here…"

Pretty obvious what was about to happen, since the slat was the perfect size to shoot an arrow through. Imoen lunged and pressed her palms against Minsc's side, putting her all into shoving his stupid, stubborn bulk out of the way. "Minsc! Aside!"

Imoen's all (all five feet, no inches, nine stone, and zero muscle of it) wasn't much, but she managed to jostle the big guy a little, just as a scraping and snapping noise sounded on the other side of the door. For the second time that night Minsc took a crossbow bolt, but thankfully it just punched a dent in his spaulder instead of piercing his chest, twisting his body to the side before ricocheting off and tapping the tunnel's wall.

Much like the first bolt, this little graze just made the big guy mad.

" **VILLAINY!** " he bellowed through the slat, rearing back and kicking the door with a force that splintered wood and sent bolts flying off their hinges. A ferocious lunge followed, Minsc shouldering the door for all he was worth (all six-and-three-quarters feet, eighteen stone, and one-hundred-percent muscle of him!) and the door caved and went off its hinges like a battering ram had struck. With a speed that belied his size Minsc's hands swept in next and grabbed the door by both sides, pulling it off its hinges just as another crossbow bolt flew and stuck into the wood.

A shrug of his shoulders threw the broken door aside, forcing his companions to flatten against the walls. Then Minsc was charging through the gaping doorway. The crossbowman and woman both went stumbling back.

The woman-guard scampered away 'till she was behind a wooden table, trying to reload, while the man remembered his weapon and took aim with a fresh bolt, just a little too late to stop Minsc from stomping in and snatching the bow by a limb. The yank that followed drew the man up and into Minsc's plunging fist, which struck with the force of a sledge and twisted the fellow's head so sharp that Imoen wondered if he'd broke his neck then and there. He spun like a screw and dropped like a rag.

Cradling her weapon in her arms, the second guard cranked it with shaky hands. When Minsc took a stomp in her direction she took aim.

A shove of Minsc's foot drove the table's edge straight into the guard's gut and pinned her against the wall, her crossbow clattering to the tabletop, then an arc of steel brushed the ceiling and came streaking down to bite clean into her forehead. She stared, cross-eyed, at the blade for a moment, then Minsc yanked it free and the guard face-flopped onto the table, sprinkling it with her blood and brains.

With a little swivel and reverse, Minsc stabbed down and skewered the man who he'd just laid flat. If the punch hadn't killed the guard, the stab sure did. The big guy stomped to free his sword, then whirled to face the far side of the room.

Somewhere forward and above them there was a lot of commotion. Shouting voices. Alarms sounding. Feet clomping. Lots of curse words.

Shaking herself, Imoen realized that she probably ought to do something too, so she nocked an arrow to her bowstring and took a cautious step forward. Minsc was already hurrying towards the next flight of stairs. More foes up there, and he was rushing at them with glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually keep up with all of the magical items that characters carry, because I’m crazy like that. Imoen’s got a pretty impressive collection at this point: a Ring of Infravision (giving her infravision at will), a Ring of Invisibility (invisibility at will once per day), Boots of Speed (which double her movement speed – figured it was a fitting item for someone who’s such a spaz), a Bag of Holding, a collection of wands, an enchanted bow darkwood shortbow, and a collection of enchanted arrows that would make the Green Arrow or Hawkeye proud.
> 
> I try to always be mindful of making the spells and magical equipment that characters use fit those characters thematically. Imoen gets speed and cool utility stuff that enhances her rogue and archer abilities. Ashura’s gear is all focused on making her a terrifying melee fighter. Viconia’s magic is all darkness and dirty tricks, and Edwin’s magic is all about overwhelming force. That sort of thing.


	5. Beshaba's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: 'Kill It with Fire!'

_"Slavery is illegal in Amn. On paper, at least. In practice it's a different story."_ \- Asargrym of Baldur's Gate, _A Merchant Master's Life_

* * *

The stairway was a narrow fit for Minsc's greatsword and his bulk. He'd no room to swing, so he was left stabbing and clubbing with the blade, and the first pair of guards who rushed him dodged away easy enough. They were also armed with bigass knives: a much better choice of weapon for a close quarters fight.

A better choice than Imoen's bow and arrow, too, but she had herself a spell that would compensate for that. She whispered it now, nocking and drawing.

Minsc was bleeding from a couple of cuts, but he managed to turn it around a bit with a stomp to a guard's foot and a shoulder-slam that smashed the fellow hard against the wall. Meantime the other guard slithered in behind the big guy, aiming to stab him in the back.

Imoen's spell took hold and her vision went all clear and crisp; every blurred edge sharpening as time screeched to a halt. She faced the flanking guard. She adjusted her aim. The air left her lungs. She let go of the string.

_Thump._ The arrow flashed by, barely missed Minsc's elbow, and then plunged into the side of the guard's neck. Fletching fluttered and the man let out a gurgle.

Same instant Minsc used his sword's crossguard to crack the face of the man in front of him. The guard went limp and rolled down the steps, while Minsc reversed and stabbed up at a third fellow who'd appeared through the doorway. This guy scampered back, Minsc pursued with a roar, the fellow with the arrow through his neck collapsed, and Imoen bounded over one downed body after the next, trying to keep up.

Beyond the stairway lay a narrow hall. Still a tight fit for Minsc's big-bull-self. Armed folk had poured out of the woodwork to bolster the retreating guard, and Minsc was blocking any chance of hitting them with the bow. Welp. Imoen'd have to make do.

Plucking a wand from her belt, she pressed to the wall and aimed best she could at Mr. Retreater, snapping out a command word and launching a ripple through the air that zipped by Minsc and enveloped the guard. A sheen of magic outlined the man, his muscles locking into place a few strides short of his fellows.

Its power spent, the wand started to crumble and Imoen let it go, reaching for an arrow. With another whispered _truestrike_ spell she drew and aimed.

Minsc's sword chopped down at the frozen guardsman, hacking through his collarbone and showering the planks with blood. That blow felled the man, but got the blade embedded in the process. Two more guards closed in and Minsc's foot flew up, striking one of 'em in the chest. Imoen picked the other for a target and let fly.

The arrow tickled right by Minsc's arm, then plunged square into a guardswoman's chest, the enchanted broadhead punching through her gambeson like it was nothing. The woman wobbled and dropped. _Nice._ But Imoen was out of carnival trick shots now. Had to change things up.

Shoulder her bow, she yanked a spell component out of her bag: a tiny scrap of tree gum. A little legerdemain made the gum dance between her fingers as she chanted, then it vanished in a flash that rolled over her entire form and made it flicker out of sight. Invisible once again, she bent low and dashed ahead.

Twas a frustratingly narrow hall, all packed with shifting bodies and pointy weapons, but Imoen was short and Imoen was quick. She ducked under the big guy's elbow, side-stepped a man who was trying to fend off Minsc's fists and pommel-blows, hopped over the convulsing body of the woman with the arrow in her chest, then skittered around a second man who'd been hanging back and trying to poke at Minsc with a spear.

Behind the spearman now, she turned and plucked an arrow from her quiver, holding it like a dagger. _Hm._ Next move would have been to stab the spearman in the neck, but a glance at the chamber behind her made her hesitate.

The place looked like some sort of storeroom, packed with crates and kegs and coils of rope. Bustling with activity too: three men crouched behind a row of crates, aiming crossbows at the doorway, and more guards lined the walls, armed with spears or swords. The moment Imoen stabbed the nearby spearman and went visible she'd make her big ol' bum a target for those archers. Minsc was pushing ahead, too; he'd just clubbed the face of the guy who’d been giving him trouble in. Any moment he'd come roaring into that firing line.

Calculated risk time.

Swerving on her heel, Imoen dashed right on into the storeroom, going quick and quiet but leaning more into the quick part. (If the crossbowmen heard a little _pat_ -pattering, it was unlikely they'd realize what was going on right at first. An invisible, lightly armored girl charging right into their midst, intent on stabbing them all to death? Who'd be stupid enough to do that?)

Her boots carried her past a pillar, around a crate, and then right up on one of the crossbowmen. He seemed to sense her at the last moment and give a start, head turning, but then his eyes were bulging and hot blood was pumping against Imoen's fist, her arrow stuck in the man's neck and her other hand pressing the side of his crossbow hard as she could.

_Thump!_ The crossbow went off and lodged its bolt right in the side of the second guard in line, the shock of that making him squeeze his trigger and fire one off as well. Meantime the man with an arrow in his jugular started sinking, and as he did Imoen reached down and snagged the dagger from his belt.

Somewhere past the crates there was a lot of clomping, and now the chamber boomed with Minsc's warcry:

_"RARRGH!"_

With a shove Imoen made the bleeding man crumple over the rest of the way, then sprang, leaping off his back and onto the crossbowman with the bolt in his side. They both went crashing down.

She stabbed for his face but he blocked with an arm. She caught hold of the imbedded bolt and used it for all the leverage it was worth. She caught an angry palm to the chin for her troubles, fingers clawing at her mouth and nose. She bit down on a finger hard as she could. Tugged at the bolt and drew out a scream. Found some space to stab. Found that her dagger was stuck through the man’s eye, and then he wasn't really struggling no more.

No time to think; she launched off the convulsing body fast as she could, standing. The third archer was right there, crossbow leveled at her chest. Would have shot her right then, 'cept there weren't no bolt loaded.

The guard seemed to realize that. He dropped his bow and whipped out a knife, same instant that Imoen fanned out her fingers and pressed her thumbs together, spellwords on her lips. When the guard lunged he caught a face full of flame for his trouble, stumbling and screaming.

Clothes starting to catch, the man whirled and fled, and Imoen did a bit of the same, leaping atop a crate to draw her bow and nock an arrow. Minsc was over on the other side of the barricade, teeth gritted and a hand gripping a crossbow bolt that had struck him somewhere mid-torso. _Dang._ Looked like the big guy had taken his third bolt of the night, and this one had actually staggered him.

Lots of eyes were on her now, swords and spears all pointing. There was a heavily armored fellow up on the landing, overlooking the whole scene. Behind one rank of guards there appeared to be a huge cage door. Only one of the remaining guards had a bow. He was aiming it at her.

Her bow twanged first ––a wild shot–– and then she was dropping down behind the crates. An arrow zipped over her head.

Something else streaked by from the other direction, all cloudy and quick. It appeared to be Kirian, her sword and body ablur with _haste_ , and as she closed in on a rank of guards her silhouette flickered further, expanding into six duplicates. The swarm of Kirians fanned out.

An arrow flashed by. Imoen popped out of cover and took another shot at the archer. _Dern._ All she struck was a pillar. Ducking down, she felt Minsc come lumbering in beside her, panting hard. Had a big, goofy, blood-splattered grin on his face.

Someone else had followed the big guy, shambling over and gripping a spear. One of the guards from the hall?! 'Cept he was moving all slow, the top of his skull was hacked open, his eyes were blank, and he'd started to veer around to advance on one of the lines of living guards.

There was also a lot of scratching and clanking just on the other side of the barricade, and when Imoen chanced a peak she caught a glimpse of two familiar crossbowmen, rising from the dead. They both turned their backs on her, fingers fumbling in unison to load their bows, and then as one they aimed and shot at the enemy.

The archer who'd been giving Imoen trouble wobbled and fell over, and the undead (Baeloth's doing, no doubt) went on to reload and advance on the rest of the line.

Up on the landing, the armored man glared down, arms crossed at his chest. A second fellow had joined him, this one dressed in fine black and gold silks. They exchanged some words, then the armored man turned and disappeared through a doorway while Mr. Fine Silks stretched his fingers out (in what _had_ to be an arcane gesture) and surveyed them all.

_Ooo boy._ Looked like he'd been ordered to go all scorched earth on the whole storeroom.

Imeon decided to preempt all that with some scorched earth of her own, drawing her fire wand and taking aim. With a word she sent a white-hot ray streaking up to catch the man in the chest…

…only to watch the fireblast just sort of whiff out against an invisible barrier. _Ack!_

Mr. Fine Silks barked out the last word of his evocation, hands glowing frosty-white. In a flash that light covered the entire storeroom ceiling, crystalline and crackling. Next there was a sound like breaking glass.

Imoen dropped to her knees, whipping her cloak up over her head. Something heavy struck her shoulder, pummeling her flat onto her chin and belly, then more heavy somethings struck her back and legs. All around her there was a terrible rattling ––a thousand jagged little _clinks_ and _thunks_. A crate shattered nearby. Ice punched holes through her cloak, stinging and numbing every spot it struck. Her fingers burned with cold.

Then, near as quick as it had started, the hailstorm abated and settled. Imoen dared a glance up, fighting to control her shivers, and caught a glimpse of Baeloth nearby. The lucky bastard was untouched and grinning, hands together and fingers steepled. A few more hailstones dropped down and bounced off some sort of arcane shielding that hung over him like a parasol, two of his zombies huddling under it with him.

With a theatrical flick Baeloth's fingers unfurled, and out flashed a bolt of white light, arcing up to strike the man in silks. It hit the man's protections in a flash of sparks, the air around him wavering. _A dispel._ Moment she realized that, Imoen propped up on her elbow and aimed her wand once again.

This time there was no whiff. _This time_ the ray of fire set some silks ablaze and sent the mage stumbling back against the doorframe, cursing. One of his hands worked to beat the flames, while the other made a quick gesture, fingertips flashing. There was a corresponding click and groan from the gridiron door down in the storeroom, then the man in silks whirled and ran for it.

Gritting her teeth and shivering, Imoen pushed up onto her feet. Poor Minsc looked even more battered than she, all painted with frost and huddled on the floor. Everywhere —save where Baeloth stood— there was a dusting of ice shards.

Only two of the guards seemed able to climb to their feet, both near the gridiron door. Kirian (and two of her illusory doubles) stood nearby, brushing themselves off in synch. The cage door before them was creaking, already open wide.

Pretty dark in there, but Imoen caught a glimpse of movement. At the sight of whatever was on the other side, the three Kirians lurched backwards and raised their swords in a guard, feet struggling for purchase on the ice.

Long, spidery fingers appeared at either side of the doorway, claws clinking as they gripped the fame and made the whole cage-wall rattle and shake. Next appeared a nose as long and sharp as a heron's beak, set under two glittery black eyes on a gnarled and warty face. The creature's skin was a mottled yellow, the texture of a sick tree's bark; wild, stringy out sticking from the top of its head.

It hunched low as it slithered out through the doorway, then shot up to a full nine feet in height, naked and filthy ( _Yick! They never show_ that _part in the bestiaries!_ ), arms gaunt but long as tree trunks. With a wide-mouthed roar the creature showed off every one of its dagger-point teeth.

_A troll. Oh boy…_

Lowering its head, the creature moved. _Fast!_ A claw-swipe cut both of Kirian's doubles to wisps while the real one backtracked, slip-sliding on the ice and trying to keep her feet. Meantime the guard on the other side of the troll raised her spear and poked, trying to fend it off while she also backed away.

The flicking spear tip just caught the beast's attention and ire, and with a pivot and a lunge it shoved its way past the weapon and caught the guard by her shoulders, claws digging it. A yank pulled the guard off her feet and into clamping jaws, teeth sawing out the front of her throat and showering the ice with blood. She kicked and convulsed while the monster chewed and chewed.

The second guard just threw her spear down and turned, making a run for it, and behind all the action and commotion there was more movement in the doorway of the cage. A second tree trunk figure shouldered its way out, teeth bared.

_Trolls!_ That cage was a bloody troll pen! No telling how many of the things that mage had unleashed!

Minsc was hunched and using his sword as a crutch. Kirian was skittering backwards and navigating the ice. Baeloth had taken a wise step back, and now he took another. His zombies pivoted, all casual like, and shot their crossbows, twin bolts striking the back of the fleeing guard and dropping her by the foot of the stairs. The troll that had just chewed out a woman's throat turned and met Imoen's eyes.

_Scorched earth time!_

One of Imoen's hands shot into her enchanted bag while the other aimed her wand. She shouted a different command word than the one she'd used before; a word that would release way more of a charge all at once. Flames crackled and heat baked her fingers (actually felt kind of nice, after the ice shower), and the little carved dragon's head at the end of the wand belched out a flaming bolt that shot across the warehouse. It struck the leading troll and exploded in a blinding burst.

The wand crumbled in her hand and the blast forced her to turn her head. A breath later a searing wind struck her face, along with the scent of charred meat. Gurgling cries and slapping sounds followed, along with the pop and crackle of flame.

Turning her head, Imoen found that the lead creature had fallen, but was dragging its burning body towards her. Her hand shot out of her bag, hefting a round little bottle full of sloshing yellow liquid, and without hesitation she spun and hurtled it at the creature's face with all her strength.

( _More scorched earth!_ _Burn! Burn!_ ) On impact the vial burst, alchemical oil igniting in a roaring conflagration that mixed with the flames already there, forming a blinding-bright wall. The fire blocked the trolls from view. Hopefully there'd be no crawling through _that_. (Especially since, as she'd read somewhere, fire was the best weapon against trolls).

Smoke tickled Imoen's nostrils as she backed away. There were a lot of crackling and popping sounds, but no more cries from the trolls. Someone slipped in behind her and she started, reaching into her component bag, but –– _whew_ –– it was only Baeloth.

"I believe we have some loose ends to chase down?" he suggested, giving the stairway a pointed look.

"Yeah." Imoen started in that direction, Minsc lumbering to her side and Kirian following.

Baeloth rubbed his hands together. "Goodie! Let's show that ice-and-troll-flinging fellow what for!"

"And rescue Viconia."

"I _suppose_ we can do that too. If she's about. And if it's convenient."

 

* * *

The sound of boots clacking on hardwood awakened her, her eyes snapping open. She tried to shoot to her feet, only to rattle the chains and manacles that bound her wrists and ankles. The moment she sensed the bonds she forced herself to still.

_Do not flail. Assess the situation._ Her eyes flicked about.

They had stripped her of everything save her black smock. They had not gagged her. Her ankles were bound together by a short length of chain, as were her wrists, and additional chains tethered the wrist-manacles to the crossbar of a **massive** ship's anchor that leaned (attached by a strap, so no hope of tipping it) against the wall.

Viconia cursed herself for her moment of animal panic. Feigning sleep would have been more advantageous. There was no changing that now, though, so she glared at her captors, searching out and memorizing every detail.

One of them looked her in the eye as she did. "You'd better be worth the trouble." This one was a female, and a familiar one at that: the perfume merchant from the bazaar. Seni, she had named herself. Now the half-elf was dressed more as an assassin than a saleswoman, a short blade hanging from her belt. Her leathers were burnt in places and torn in others, and she'd the drawn look of someone who had recently seen cursory magical healing.

"Hey now," a human male who stood back a bit put in. "If Eldarin and the rest never show, that just means more profit for you, right?"

The female clenched her teeth and gave the male a sideward look. "Of course a bloody Doomaster would see it that way," she grumbled. "Bet if your mother died you'd call it a blessing from The Maid of Misfortune, since you wouldn't have to write or buy her midwinter presents anymore."

The male snorted, unbothered. "Never wrote her much to begin with." He'd an arrogant look to him, and he did indeed wear the regalia of a priest: the twisted antlers of Beshaba on bold display across his breast. "You are a follower of Mask, correct? Shouldn't you be proud of raking in the biggest pot? Or do you ascribe to some…code of honor among thieves?"

"We're a team," the second male in the room hissed. There was something familiar about him as well. Perhaps she had glimpsed this human in the crowds, scouting-

No. No. She remembered now: his face up close during fits of half-consciousness, when she'd found herself jostled up and down with a sewer's stench in her nose, before passing out once again. This was the male who had lugged her over his shoulder like a sack of goods. The one who had blindsided her with a spell of stunning, out in the mists.

She would kill him first.

As they bickered, the attention of the humans drifted away from Viconia. She took advantage, clenching her eyes tight and seeking out her goddess. Without her holy symbol her power was limited, but there were still…

No use. Where a well of cold and calming darkness should be, everything was simply fuzzy. Her ties with Shar had been severed, for the moment. It was to be expected.

There are several ways to cripple a spellcaster, the crudest being to simply gag them and keep their hands apart, but enchantments of negation were easy enough to weave into objects such as shackles. The duergar had made an industry out of manufacturing such bindings for drow dungeons. Collars as well, which were even more popular in the underdark. Viconia had fastened many such devices around people's necks. She had felt the choke of them as well. Thrice.

At the moment her captors were talking of a similar subject. "Speaking of coin," the arrogant priest was saying, "this one looks feisty. She'll be expensive to cage."

_You do not know the half of it, rivvil._

The female shrugged. "Pasha Maveed kept her in a cage for years. She was his favored concubine. Bit of a legend on that caravan circuit, too. Hopefully she'll stir up a bidding war with the sort of rich pricks who like them exotic."

Viconia fought very hard to keep her face blank. Perhaps she was being baited. Perhaps they were just assessing her worth. Regardless, Maveed was _not_ a name she ever wished to hear again. Also, it was irritating that all their eyes were upon her. If she could just get a few moments without attention…

"Yeah," the arrogant priest said, "but how do you think he actually caged her? A _miscast_ curse made permanent?"

"That would be the surest way," the male who had carried her put in.

"High Doomaster Aquail could do it, but he'd charge a _steep_ price."

"Well, the shackles will do for now," said the female. She gave Viconia a pointed look. "Don't have anything to contribute? You've been glaring holes in us for a while."

Viconia just kept her gaze even. Normally her instinct would be to counter and provoke, but she had too much attention as it was.

"Maybe you could tell us some stories of Pasha-" the female started to taunt, but a crashing sound interrupted her. She turned her head. More muffled scrapes and snaps followed. "What in blazes?"

They all cocked their heads to listen. After a moment the priest spoke. "This place is warded against scrying." More and more, it sounded like there was shouting and fighting going on somewhere beyond the walls.

The female turned on the plainer looking male. "Did you ward the drow?"

"In the sewers."

"You were supposed to do that as soon as she was captured!"

"I never got a chance to stop!" he snapped. "What with the lightning and the arrows." He shook his head. "Damn."

The arrogant priest spoke up. " _You_ might have led them here, Suna. How do you know you weren't being followed?"

"Hey! I drank my potion before I went to ground."

They continued to bicker, their eyes no longer on Viconia. Good. She would use this moment for all it was worth.

They had taken her warhammer, her cloak (along with the blade and poison vial hidden within), her belt and enchanted harness (with their numerous chakrams, potions, thieves' tools, and extra blades), her trousers and tunic (also containing hidden pockets, tools, and a tiny, punch-point dagger), her boots (of course there were blades hidden there), her holy symbol, and her bandana.

All they had left her with was her smock, not noticing the little black wire threaded through the collar. Bending her neck, Viconia managed to find it with her teeth and work it free, then straighten, using her tongue to press the wire against the inside of her cheek. She would need to be free of her captors' attention for a long stretch (several minutes, at least) before trying to pick at her manacle with the wire between her teeth. Best to wait for a big distraction.

Still, she was confident that she could do this. Shackles like these had become _quite_ familiar to Viconia DeVir. She had worn many over the years, starting with the pair her own mother had placed around her wrists before she was condemned to the sacrificial altar.

She had worn many shackles, but one way or another she had slipped them all. She had survived. This would be no different.

 

* * *

The fleeing mage could have left surprises behind, so Imoen kept an eye out as she crept through the doorway. There didn't seem to be any explosive skulls or rune scratches up here though; just a wide hall lined with bars. Keeping an arrow nocked, she led the way.

At first glance she thought the bars might be for shooting through (murder holes and all that), but really it looked more like prison cages. There was a rank smell about the place too. A beast pen?

_Hm? Nope._ There were people behind the bars, all shrunk back against the walls and huddling in terror. They were dirty, haggard, frizzy-haired, and clad in rags. Hard to guess their numbers on account of them all being clumped together. Quite a lot of children, though.

Oh. And in addition to the rags and dirt each of 'em was wearing a fitted metal collar.

"Ah," Baeloth spoke up. "A slave pen. Well that explains quite a bit." He stuck up his nose. "How insulting that they snagged that harpy instead of singling _me_ out for my exotic beauty!" He gestured at his face. "Am I not dashingly drow enough for a harem in Calimshan?"

"An oversight, no doubt," Imoen said absently as she walked along. Finding what she judged to be the midpoint of the hallway, she looked about. There were four cage doors total. None of the slaves inside were shackled, which simplified things. The door at the far end of the hall seemed to be locked as well. If she used this spell right every one of those locks would be in range.

Next she quivered her arrow, shouldered her bow, and drew herself up, eyes closed tight. She tried to picture every single locking mechanism; putting mental feelers out to touch them all. Finally she drew in a deep breath, and on the outbreath she spoke her incantation:

" _Niv athrek vakerum_." White light flashed before her, and her eyes blinked open in time to see the glow fly, scatter, and touch every single locking mechanism in the room. _Click – click – click – click –click._ The locks all disengaged in rapid succession and the cages creaked open.

"There!" Imoen announced to the slaves. "You're free! Time to get The Hells out of here!"

They all just stared in bewilderment.

She pointed behind her. "If you go that way there's a tunnel that leads down into the sewers." There was a scent of smoke in the air. "Uh. You'll want to hurry, though! Run past the fire! Keep running 'till you're down in the tunnels."

One of the children took a tentative step forward, then a few more followed. _Good._

Imoen started for the far door, her companions at her heel. Sure enough, her spell had unlocked it and it creaked open with a touch. Looking back, she gave the drow hand sign for ' _Hold for ten beats, then follow_ ' as she nudged the door a bit more with her toe and started up another spell, a second glob of tree resin dancing between her fingers.

A wave of illusion rolled over her, and for the third time that night (and the last she'd be able to manage without rest) she faded from sight. Invisible now, she crept through the doorway.

Sure enough, the slaver mage had prepared. Runes were scrawled in soot just beyond the doorway; a magical trap that was easy enough to spot and easy enough to undo. Imoen tossed some alchemical salts onto the symbol and hopped over, looking about.

He'd laid traps, and he'd taken some other preparations as well. Soon as Imoen fully entered the room (it appeared to be some sort of kitchen) she got a look at the silk clad man on the far side, his eyes tracking her _despite_ the _invisibility_ spell. He was holding a sparkly little object too, pointed her way. A glass rod. A spell component for a _lightning bolt_.

_Well. Shit._

Imoen bolted full-speed into the kitchen, enchanted boots pattering across the boards. Light flashed and sizzled somewhere behind her. Her ears rang with the thunderclap, along with the sound of a wall being blasted to splinters. Every hair on her head, neck, and back-portions stood on end. She caught the edge of a table and vaulted over.

In addition to the mage there were more guards with crossbows lined up here. They were trying to aim, but looked a bit confused. Made sense. The man in silks had used a spell to spot Imoen, but the foot soldiers couldn't do that.

Three choices now: she could shoot an arrow, cast a spell, or make a mad dash somewhere else while the man in silks tried to fry her with more magic. She chose spell.

Straightening and weaving her fingers, she focused on the middle distance between her and the enemy line. Light danced and then bloomed there, rising and solidifying.

Soon as she cast the spell Imoen flickered back into the visible range, but that didn't matter; she'd just put an excellent piece of cover between her and the archers: a bigass lizard monster! It bristled with spikes and tusks, its legs were thick as tree trunks, and it sported a fringe atop its head and spikes along its swishing tail.

The bigass lizard monster smashed its terrible forepaws against the floor, snorted out a plume of mist, then charged the enemy line. At the last instant it skidded and lashed with its tail, looking intent to club every archer in the head, although (being an illusion and all) it couldn't _actually_ do that. Still, the B.L.M. had all the soldiers scrambling back and firing wild shots through its illusory bulk.

By the time the enemy realized it was all just a distraction Kirian and Baeloth had gotten into place, taken aim, and unleashed some much more substantial magic. Electric currents arced and bolts of arcane energy streaked through the dissipating thunder-lizard, and many of the archers screamed, dropping to the planks.

The man in silks retaliated, swirls of flame appearing on the palms of his hands, but Imoen didn't wait around to see the full effect of the spell. A yank pulled the table down in front of her, and she huddled behind it, trying to judge things by the roars, fiery pops, and shouted spellwords on the other side of her improvised cover.

Eventually the firestorm waned and she popped back up, an arrow ready. Baeloth stood in the middle of a lot of scorched planks, grinning his harlequin grin, with an orb of protective energy around him. The archers were all dead. Baeloth's zombie pets were charred too. No sign of Kiran. Imoen took a potshot at the man in silks and then dove back down as another back-and-forth of evocations flew.

Once the fireworks dissipated she peaked once more, just in time to witness a mirror-bright portal flash into being right behind the man in silks. For a half-beat she thought he was retreating, but then a blade burst through his chest. Holding the sword, Kirian shouldered on out of the portal behind him, shoved the impaled man off and onto the floor, then dropped down on his back and slit his throat.

And that was that.

_Whew. Finally._ Even though he was dead, the flames that Mr. Silks had summoned kept licking their way up the pillars of the kitchen, though. Smoke curled along the rafters, and Imoen noticed that some of it was drifting in from the hall with the cages. She frowned. _Hope them slaves made a run for it and found the sewers._

Nothing to do now though, 'cept press on before the smoke thickened and they were all tasting it.

The next chamber looked like a dining hall, with bright tiles and long tables. Hookahs rested on a few of the tabletops, and the chairs looked comfy and well-stuffed. The walls here were curved, and a short flight of steps led down into a sort of open galley space. (In fact, the way the walls bowed and the pillars were set up, it looked like this whole place might be some sort of repurposed ship).

The galley area took a sharp bend, most of the space out of view, with voices shouting somewhere beyond the curve. Imoen bent her knees, ready for another stretch of the good ol' quiet-creep, but she'd only gone a couple steps when Minsc came clomping on by her, rattling tiles and then the steps. Seemed he'd gone and got his second wind.

She tried to whisper-hiss at him. "Minsc!"

"She is just ahead," the giant stated, no falter in his step. "Boo has told me."

Well, being leader had been nice while it lasted. Imoen scampered to keep up with the big lug once again. Up ahead, the slavers seemed to be in the midst of a pitched argument. Snatches of the shouting reached her ears.

"…truly gone and fucked us, Suna!"

"…every precaution! We planned this out for days! And _he_ claimed that Lady Doom's favor was…"

"…all I said was…"

They were almost around the bend now. Time to rescue the damsel like big damned heroes, much as Imoen would have preferred to play this the smart way. Greatsword in hand, Minsc marched on.

With a sharp turn they met the hard-eyed glares of the slavers, all of them positioned to face the invaders. _Thankfully_ the enemy seemed to have spent up all of their bowmen and arrows. Looked like the big commander in plate armor, a little gnomish man that Imoen hadn't seen before, the blonde half-elf drownapper, and a haughty man in proud purples were the only ones left. There were also some chains splayed out on the floor, near what appeared to be a giant ship's anchor. Behind that anchor some legs poked out, wearing large boots.

Minsc drew to a halt, greatsword clenched. Imoen nocked an arrow, and Baeloth and Kirian slipped in at their backs. There was a tense pause, then the armored man turned and snapped at the half-elf:

"You made this mess, Suna. Good luck cleaning it up." He made a gesture at the gnome beside him, then reached down and planted a hand on the little guy's shoulder. With a quick incantation (and a relieved look on his face) the gnome and the slaver boss winked out of existence, air rushing in to fill the space where they'd been. The arrogant prick in the purples looked shocked, turning and stumbling over to the vacant spot.

Meanwhile Suna (or Seni, or whatever) whipped her ruby sword free and shot Imoen a murderous scowl. "You've come for your drow bitch, right?" She spun around, towards the chains and anchor, leaping.

Imoen shot her arrow, trying to peg the drownapper in the back, but it whizzed by and struck hardwood. _Dern!_ With that agility enchantment Suna was impossible to-

The woman stopped dead in her tracks, suddenly a perfect target. Seemed to be staring in shock at the chains. "What?!" Apparently they weren't in the right place, or something. Suna looked down at the boots and body splayed out behind the anchor. "Torms blue, bloated balls!"

There was a faint hiss as a cloud of darkness bloomed up and enveloped everything: Suna, the shackles, and the man in purples too. Scuffing sounded from within, along with a shout, then there were some flashes of red inside the cloud, like lightning veiled by a storm.

A few breaths later the cloud imploded and vanished, revealing the prone forms of Suna and the man, Viconia looming over them both. She was dressed in just her black undergarment, though she looked about as haughty and dignified as always, nose high and a dripping dagger in her hand. The man lay quaking in a pool of blood, and smoke wafted up from blackened spots at Suna's neck and lower back. Seemed she was still alive, though, her breaths coming out rapid.

"You blindsided me _once, iblith_ ," Viconia snarled down at Suna. "Only once. I return the favor now." Planting a foot on the woman’s ribs, she glared down into her glassy eyes, then kicked her fully onto her back. Suna's shoulders shivered hard with the motion, but her lower body was limp as a doll. "You thought to hold me? To shackle me? To cow me?!"

"I…I…" was the only word Suna could rasp out. Tears of pain were rolling down her cheeks. Looked rather pathetic.

"You thought wrong. And I shall make sure that you linger long enough to dwell on every error before I send your soul to The Abyss."

"Viconia…" Imoen interrupted, stepping up.

"Do not fret. She will not be able to escape us, wherever we take her. My spell severed her vertebrae. There shall be plenty of time to-"

Imoen's bowstring thumped, the enchanted broadhead striking right above Suna's brow and punching clean through her skull. The woman's head smacked against the floor and her eyes rolled back, a little black blood trickling down.

"No torture," Imoen stated flat. "We kill our enemies clean."

" _Jiv'elg_ ," Viconia grumbled.

"Yup. And you're a big dumb dunderhead. Come on. We need to find your gear and get out of here." Smoke was starting to trickle in from the dining area, rolling along the ceiling. The combination of fire and lightning spells had done a number on this place. "You're welcome for the rescue, by the way."

 

* * *

Coughing now, they stumbled out onto a balcony above a dimly lit street. Seemed they had indeed been crawling through the belly of some sort of ship, 'docked' up on a muddy lot between rows of shanties. A stairway led down from the cabin's door, and Imoen and company took it, slow and cautious.

There were about a dozen people lined up by the street and watching them, somber and clad in formless robes with billowing hoods. They waited in silence, blocking the way. Eventually, one of them spoke:

"You've made quite the mess." His voice was familiar. Body language too. This was the guy they'd met during their first hour in the city.

Smoke leaked out of the landlocked ship, and somewhere inside there was a snapping sound, followed by something collapsing. Imoen glanced back and saw embers spiral up by one of the masts. Turning, she faced the cowled folks. "Hey now! We were attacked on the street-"

She was cut off by a rushing noise, and on instinct she shrank back and reached for her component bag, the air around her and her companions shimmering, then resolving into a solid bubble. The force field was transparent, casting the outside world in a slightly rosy hue. Imoen and her crew formed a circle, back to back to back.

"You were warned!" the cowled man snapped. "No magical displays. And instead you blasted the open streets of the great bridge with lightning! You went climbing up walls! You flung fire across the rooftops! You floated down with a _featherfall_ spell! You employed divinations to track your enemies, and now…" He gestured at the burning ship. "…now this! I told you that you would be fined for a second infraction, but…bah! This has to count for second, third, fourth, and fifth, at least!"

"It was the slavers what threw the first spell!" Imoen protested. "And what are you doin' tolleratin' a damn slave stockade in your city, anyways?"

"We do not interfere in the economy," the cowled man stated. "We simply protect The Art, and the people of this nation from its abuse. Abuse such as what you have doled out tonight." He leveled a finger. "Look at you! A drow sorcerer, a bladesinger, and Imoen the Quick herself. Had we realized who you were when you first entered the city, perhaps we would have just barred the gates!"

"Hold on. They're really calling me 'Imoen the Quick?'"

"Among other things." With a gesture the cowled mage made a small, hidebound book appear in his hands. "Imoen the Quick of Candlekeep, the greatest thief in Baldur's Gate. Bhaalspawn, savior of the city, _and_ an exile from it. Even if you don't quite live up to some of the illustrations in this book, the chaos that follows you certainly fits. Rogue mages have been cast out of this city for less than what you've done tonight. I daresay, your flagrant lack of control borders on the sort of behavior that we lock people up for! We've a special place for dangerous, deranged spellcasters."

Baeloth opened his mouth, no doubt to say something cute that would get them in more trouble, but a stomp of Viconia's boot turned his words into a pained squeak. Meantime, Imoen tried to be diplomatic. "That's…good to know. Look, I'd be happy to pay any sort of fine or…"

"That might work," a second cowled man said, stepping forward to place a hand upon the first man's shoulder.

The one who'd been speaking bristled. "These people are-"

"These people have proven themselves quite dangerous, yes. And adapt at hunting and tracking their enemies. Perhaps, as a trade for forgiving this mess, we could put those skills to use?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jiv'elg – Literally translates as 'Fun-slayer.'
> 
> I feel a little icky opening the can of worms that is Viconia's canonical tragic backstory. Hopefully it was handled with care. And uh…because the events between Baldur's Gate 1 and Baldur's Gate 2 are different here we've at least avoided one additional tragic-backstory-rape. So…there's that.
> 
> And, given that tragic backstory, I figured that Viconia might put a few cross-class skills into lockpick. She's not technically a rogue/cleric, but my version of her ended up having a lot of roguish elements (I figure she probably has the stealthy feat as well).


	6. Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein pet werewolves come in handy

_"_ _Mask is the cleverest of thieves; that is true. So clever, in fact, that he often outsmarts himself." -_ Jenelle Einhorn, _Encyclopedia Deifica_

* * *

Mirtul 28, 1369 D.R.

Lids heavy and vision a blur, Ashura tried to coax herself awake. Her throat was parched, her tongue was sandpaper, and there was a dull ache at her temple. She shifted in the bed. _Blargh!_ At least she didn't feel weak as a kitten. Was easy enough to roll over and stretch her arms out.

Her knuckles brushed against warm skin. There was someone sleeping beside her.

_Ugh._ That brief realization that she wasn't sure exactly _who_ this was in the bed ( _Hull? Garrick? Edwin?_ ) It passed quickly enough, though: her fingers brushed over raised scars and the present snapped back into place. Durlyle. He was the one with all the claw marks. Over the last couple of days she'd gotten pretty familiar with the crisscrosses that covered his body.

Forcing her eyes fully open, she looked over. Yep, that was Durlyle: long tousled hair, scars, impressive musculature and all, naked and splayed out on his stomach across the sheets. The bedspread was a vivid shade of violet, and the room was gaudy and colorful; gilt paint giving much of the furniture and molding a faux gold sheen. Tall candlesticks rested on the end table, silks hung from the ceiling, and one of the walls was completely dominated by a gigantic mirror.

Not exactly the décor she would have picked out. Festhalls, you know? There was one advantage to staying in a place like this, though: the cabinets were freshly stocked with some accessories that had come in handy. Lotions, potions, prophylactics and such.

As Ashura sat up and rubbed her forehead, Durlyle stirred at her side, stretching out his limbs and shifting his lovely behind. He turned his head and gave her a curious look. "Are you well?"

"Huh?" Ashura blinked. "Sure. Maybe overdid it a bit with the rum last night." She rolled over and stretched. "Nothing a little lazing about won't cure."

Some silent moments passed. Eventually she gathered the energy to sit and then stand up, searching for the decanter and a glass. They were over on a table beside the dresser. Wasn't a big struggle to pour herself some water and take a sip. She'd had worse hangovers.

As she drank, Ashura looked over to the dresser beside her, locked and sealed by Edwin's wards. There was a chest stuffed inside, holding the treasures that they hadn't been able to divide up just yet. Seemed like that was a bit that always got glossed over in the adventure stories: the part where the heroes have to figure out how to actually move and store a dragon's hoard, or turn it into something useful.

They had a lead on selling Balduran's journal, at least. There was a merchant in the city named Pimlico who supposedly paid a lot for rare books. Seemed he wasn't in town at the moment (the priests at Oghma's temple had said something about him traveling far and wide to acquire his collection), but soon as he came back they'd have a means to turn the journal into a big pile of gold.

Setting her glass down, Ashura reversed course and tumbled back onto the bed.

Durlyle had been watching her. "You plan more lazing, then..?" he asked, rolling onto his back. His morning erection flopped free when he did that, settling heavy against his stomach. Made for a bit of a sight.

"That's the plan, yeah." She stretched some more. "It's good to have everything taken care of. Nowhere to be. Especially after all we've been through."

Ashura had always figured, reading those old adventure stories, that this was how the heroes lived after finding the dragon's hoard. You've got the means to hole up in a fine bed for the foreseeable future, under a sturdy roof and cradling a full belly. You can just while away your days, and spend your nights laughing and drinking and fucking.

Why not do exactly that?

Especially now that her nights and mornings wouldn't be interrupted by would-be assassins or the machinations of unseen enemies. Here in this foreign city she was anonymous, and the business with her brother (and then with the red wizards, and then with the werewolves) was all behind and done with. Maybe whatever Edwin was planning would prove to be a new adventure —with the usual dangers and annoyances— but right now there was plenty of time for lazing.

She curled up closer to Durlyle, a palm resting against his chest. After a time her fingers started to brush about, exploring, and she pressed her lips to his neck. Lazy motions. At first.

* * *

Mirtul 29, 1369 D.R. (One day later)

Once again Ashura came awake with heavy lids. A heavy head. Heavy limbs too. Heavy everything, in fact. Seemed gravity had won its battle with her last night. There was also a sharp ache in her neck, and as she moved she felt pins and needles start to stab her right leg.

Lesser pins attacked her forearms. With a little more shifting it became clear why bits of her body had lost circulation — _ouch!_ She'd been sleeping on the floor, fully clothed, with her head turned at a terrible angle, arms twisted and her damn foot propped up on a chair.

Wincing, she rolled over, scooted back, and then tried to move her sleeping leg. Took a little doing, but eventually the spikes of pain dulled down to manageable aches. She rubbed her forehead and felt the indentations that the carpet had made there, then brushed her hair back from her eyes. A little effort, and she was propped up on her elbows.

"Do you wish to die, as I did?" a voice inquired, genuinely curious and a tad sympathetic. Delainy was sitting in a nearby chair, poised and fully dressed.

Ashura blinked up at her. "I'll be fine," she managed to groan. "Been through worse."

Usually not self-inflicted, though. _Ugh_. She'd really overdone it with the rum last night. Tempting to just lay here all day and let gravity win its battle. Her aching bladder had other ideas, though.

A second voice cut in. Edwin's. "Shouldn't you show some caution," he droned, "when you awaken to someone asking: 'Do you wish to die?' With your history of entanglements with assassins and such, one would hope that you would have learned a little healthy paranoia."

"I knew what she meant," Ashura grunted. With a bit more blinking Edwin came into focus, sitting on a stuffed sofa at the far end of the room. A book rested in his lap and a teacup sat on the tabletop by his hand. They were in the sitting room of the royal suit that they had rented on the upper floor of the festhall. A nice setup, with this cozy chamber adjoined by three bedrooms, along with their own personal privy.

"And you know what I mean as well," Edwin snapped. "You left yourself vulnerable, passed out and drooling on the carpet."

"Eh." Bracing her hands on the floor, Ashura forced herself up. Bit of a rush for her throbbing head, but she managed, brushing out her wrinkled shirt. "No one murdered me in my sleep."

"Yet."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." She stumbled on in the general direction of the privy.

Sometime later, her face and hair wet from a lot of splashing in the washing basin, Ashura stumbled back out. By then Alora had emerged from her room, sleepy-eyed and sampling some of Edwin's tea.

Finding a chair, Ashura plopped down and rubbed her forehead.

Delainy hovered nearby. "I wish to help, if I can," the young woman said. "Normally I would gather plants. There are many for a stomach's sickness. Ginger root, perhaps? Though few things grow within this city…"

"There is a thing called an apothecary shop, fool," Edwin grumbled.

Delainy just cocked her head.

"Stores that sell plants and potions," Ashura explained. "I'll be fine though. 'Course, we ought to go shopping sometime. Maybe later today. Find you some plants. See if my armor's ready."

Delainy nodded. "I should like that."

"Where's your brother?"

"Downstairs. Eating. I told him that I would watch over you."

"Ugh." Ashura shook her head. "Not necessary. It's just a bloody hangover. I'm not a baby." She glanced around. "Guess Shar-Teel's passed out somewhere too. Hope she found a bed."

Shar-Teel had been half the reason she'd ended up drinking so much. They'd both got on a reminiscent tear, talking about their adventures up north while they threw back a lot of rum. ( _'Ha! You never got to see the look on Eldoth's face when his girl put a blade through his heart. The swine never saw it coming!'_ )

"Nope," Alora put in. "Her bed wasn't touched, at least."

"That's not good."

"Aw, I'm sure it's fine." Alora grinned over her teacup. "I'm holding out hope that Ess-Tee found herself a nice gentleman-friend to cozy up with for a night." Her voice went low. "Don't tell her I said nothin,' but I figure that's _exactly_ what the big grumpy dump's been needing."

"More likely she's passed out in a ditch somewhere."

"Doubt it. She was walkin' all straight and sure last night, last I saw. And that was pretty late."

"Yes," Edwin grumbled over the pages of his book. "The big wench was suspiciously sober last night."

Ashura's brow furrowed. "That doesn't make sense." She didn't remember a _lot_ from the previous evening, but she did remember drinking with Shar-Teel. The big woman had been swaying quite a bit, too.

"Sober," Alora agreed, "though it didn't stop her none from being a big meany." Deepening her voice, she did her best Shar-Teel impression. "'Piss off, you damned ankle-biter!' she says to me when I try to get her to join a round of singing." She grinned over at Ashura. "At least you joined in, though! That was a great surprise!"

"Ugh. I sang?"

"Yup."

"Your singing voice is not so bad," Delainy added. "You taught me _The Dryad and the Gargoyle._ A humorous song."

Edwin had been tugging at his moustache, glaring down at the page before him. Didn't look like he was reading anymore. "Hm. She was _suspiciously_ sober," he repeated, then the book snapped shut and he launched to his feet. "Blast it!"

"What?" Ashura asked, standing as the red wizard came stomping by.

"That woman…" Edwin stalked into a bedroom: the one that Ashura had shared with Durlyle the past couple of nights. Curious, the others followed. Once inside, Edwin opened the dresser, knelt, and started to examine the big wooden chest that they had stuffed inside it. "Alora," he muttered after a moment. "Check your supplies. Most notably the alchemical powders."

"Aw," Alora said. "Edwin. Don't be so-"

"My paranoia is entirely justified," he snapped back, flipping the lid off the chest. "And this should serve as an abject lesson to us all. (I was not paranoid enough, in point of fact. _Why_ did I not see this coming?!)"

Stomach sinking, Ashura pushed in at Edwin's side and peered into the trunk. Silver and golden platters and goblets glittered in there, stacked up high. There were treasures, but…

"The wards have been disrupted, no doubt by some of your powders," Edwin went on. "And the relics and gems are gone. She made off with everything she could carry."

* * *

"It could all just be a coincidence," Alora persisted, scurrying along at Ashura's side. "There's shadow thieves all up and down this city. Maybe one of them broke in and burgled us. And…and…there's a bazillion reasons why Ess-Tee might not have shown up this morning."

Ashura shook her head. "No." She tested a strap on her fresh-donned armor, marching down the street. Seemed snug enough, and quite solid. That Cromwell fellow did good work. "Edwin's right. I should have seen this coming."

Lots of signs. The way that Shar-Teel complained about Garrick ripping her off. Bitching about how much her maimed hand would cost to fix. She should have caught on. Maybe, if she's promised to pay for the mending with her own share of the treasure…

Of course, healing of that nature would be _damned_ expensive. Might be it'd cost most of the spoils from Balduran's island. Might be Shar-Teel had done the most sensible thing that she could do.

"But after all we've done…" Alora went on. "…and you've known her even longer and…" Running out of excuses, she just shuffled her feet and pouted. "Dang it!"

"Yeah." It certainly stung.

It wasn't like Shar-Teel and Ashura were old friends or anything, but they'd spent…what? Nearly a year together? Shedding blood and cooking campfire suppers, pitching tents and breaking them down in the morning. All the messes. All the trust that had grown up natural through those messes. And there'd been a time or two, when they'd been drinking, where Shar-Teel had said a few words about sisterhood and watching each other's backs.

Then again, the second she sobered up Shar-Teel had always been quick with the insults. Also, she could probably compete with Edwin over who was the biggest complainer. Snarling and grumbling was Shar-Teel's default reaction to any situation that didn't call for out-and-out stabbing or chopping.

And, being fair, there'd been a lot to complain about. Bad luck. Bad choices. (Skie's fake ransom. Dealing with Eldoth in general. The race to save Ashura's sorry ass from the assassin's poison, in a battle that had ended up costing Shar-Teel her hand. The rescue from the Flaming Fist compound. Edwin's little scheme against the Thayan enclave and all the messiness there. The chance encounter with Alora that'd gotten them thrown into that enchanted prison. The recent spill onto an island full of werewolves).

_Ugh._ Looking back, they hadn't taken the smartest course, had they? And as for trust and sisterhood: what was that aphorism Shar-Teel loved to say? _'Steel is the only thing a woman can depend on.'_

True enough.

"Where _exactly_ are we marching to?" Edwin grumbled.

"Pimlico's estate," Ashura shot back, not slowing. "He's the big book collector in town. If she's selling the journal, it's probably to him."

"A sensible statement, but do you actually know where he lives?"

"Keep going uphill. If you do that you eventually find the place where all the rich pricks live. It's how cities work."

Edwin snorted. "Logical enough. Though I question how you became a hardened cynic versed in urban lore, living such a sheltered life. This is…what? The second _actual_ city that you have ever set foot in?"

"Yeah. But I read every _Mirt the Moneylender_ book. _Down and Out in Downshadow_ had a lot to say about urban geography."

"A good thing that real life works exactly like tawdry detective chapbooks."

"Yep."

* * *

(In point of fact, they asked for directions at the Temple of Oghma before going further uphill. Mirt the Moneylender's wisdom was only worth so much).

Pimlico's estate _was_ up on a hill, though. A magnificent one, in fact: high in a northern corner of the city where a series of canals flowed in and then dropped down a manmade waterfall into the sprawl of the Gem District. Statues bearing golden spheres overlooked the reservoir, and great, domed temples lined the canals and the arrow-straight streets following the watercourse.

The book collector's home lay on one such street, between a temple and a dividing wall. It was a broad, five story building, the brick façade painted desert orange, lined with wide picture windows. A manservant answered the door, glaring at Ashura through a narrow slit. "Yes?" His tone was stiff.

"Is master Pimlico in?" Ashura asked.

"He _is_ , but I am afraid that he is quite busy."

"This is about a book."

"Isn't it always?" The manservant surveyed her and her companions. "You do not look like scholars. Do you have some sort of message to deliver?"

"It's a very rare book."

"They-"

"Balduran's journal. An original copy, from his last journey."

The manservant's eyes widened, and there was a change in his voice. "How did you hear about _that?_ " A huff. "I'll have you know that there is a full complement of guards stationed throughout this estate. Several armed men stand right behind me, in fact."

"We're not here to rob you. We just-"

"There was a woman here earlier," Edwin cut in. "Correct? With blond hair, scars and a foul disposition?"

"All of Master Pimlico's transactions are private," the manservant snapped. "Good day." The slat closed with a sharp click.

Edwin shook his head. "It is clear what happened, then. That damned wench is smarter than she looks. She found out that the merchant had returned yesterday and beat us to this deal. (I almost admire her audacity, though she'll feel less clever after I burn her to ash)."

"So she was here and gone," Ashura muttered. "And the book's…damn."

Delainy had ignored the conversation and walked away from the door. Now she bent forward over the walkway, face near the cobblestones, butt in the air, and heedless of the queer looks she was getting from passersby on the street. Cocking her head, she sniffed a bit, then shot back upright. "She was here," the shamaness murmured. "Not long ago."

Her brother sniffed the air. "Yes," he agreed. "We could track her. If we…used our full gifts."

Ashura's eyes widened. That sounded like it might just... _Hrm. No._ "Werewolves prowling the streets in broad daylight would _not_ be good," she decided, careful to pitch her voice low. "The priests would come pouring out of that temple over there. Folk would call the guard."

"True," Edwin half-agreed. "Though…I wonder…" He lowered his voice as well, facing the twins. "An aspect of lycanthropy is the ability to _completely_ transform into the animal that you have imprinted on, correct?"

The twins looked puzzled. "Im-print-?"

"You can turn into wolves? Yes?"

Durlyle shrugged. "Yes. It is done sometimes for swift escapes, though we have always been reluctant to sacrifice claw and muscle, when fighting the other beasts."

"So you _could_ shift into four-legged, fur-covered, tail wagging canine creatures, right here and now? If you wished?

"We could."

Edwin grinned. "Perfect. A pair of gigantic dogs will draw attention, but people in these parts own stranger pets." He pointed up the street, to the tunnel that ran beneath the wall alongside the canal. "That spot may be secluded enough for a quick change."

"Could work," Ashura said. She looked at the twins. "If you two are willing."

Durlye and Delainy shared a glance, then a nod. "An opportunity to stretch and to hunt might be…interesting," Durlyle ventured. "It has been some time."

"Uh. You're going to need to take it slow. Make sure we can keep up." They began to walk up the street.

"Perhaps it would be best," Edwin mused, "if I were to conjure up some collars and leashes. To give the full appearance that the tracking hounds are our pets."

Ashura shot him a glare. "I'm not leashing my friends." The tunnel appeared empty for the moment; no guards or pedestrians in sight. Still, this was starting to feel like a stupid idea. ( _Runaway wolves on the streets of Athkatla_ _…_ )

_Eh._ Stupid or no, best to act before the trail went cold.

* * *

Moments later a pair of identical brown wolves were loping down the street, shoulder to shoulder with their noses to the ground. A couple of temple acolytes recoiled at the sight of them, hands over their mouths as they backed away. Ashura tried to shoot them a friendly wave and a half-smile.

_'_ _Nothing to see here folks. Just taking my Vaasan wolfhounds for a stroll. Don't worry, they're well trained.'_

The twins slowed a bit, zig-zagging as they snuffled over the cobblestones. One of them lifted its head and tested the air while the other kept its snout pressed to the street. A sniff or two later and it seemed to catch a whiff of something, body stiffening. There was a nod between the two wolves, then they were racing down the street, side by side and going faster than before.

Ashura ran to keep up, the others trailing her. "Slow!" she hissed. "Durlyle!"

Seemed he heard her, because the twins slowed down to a reluctant trot. They took turns bobbing their heads to whiff at the street and keep to the trail, the narrow walkway above the canal passing beneath their paws.

The streets were fairly crowded, being that it was midday and all, and their little hunting party drew plenty of attention. Some wary looks. One woman clutched the shoulders of her little girl and pulled her back to the edge of the street. A pair of armored guards in front of a temple fingered their swords as the wolves passed by.

Most folk just seemed curious, though. A few didn't even bat an eye, heads down and intent on their own business. This was a big city; maybe these people had seen stranger sights.

At a spot where the walkways intersected above the canals the twins slowed again, circling. Didn't take them long to catch the scent, though, and then they were off down one of the branches, loping faster. Soon they'd worked up to a near canter, and again Ashura found herself running to keep up. An old man turned and started as the shaggy bodies raced past him, backing dangerously close to the edge of the canal and wheeling his hands in the air.

"Slow down!" Ashura hissed again, and once more the hunting hounds relented and obeyed. For the moment. ( _'Good dogs')._

Stone steps up ahead led down the hillside, switchbacking beside the waterway where it dropped and merged with the wider reservoir. Pairs of swans and lines of ducks gliding along across those slower, deeper waters. Gaggles of children bathed and played along the edges, and barefoot women bent over the pond, washing clothes.

When they reached the bottom, the wolves put their snouts to the packed dirt and shuffled ahead, breaking apart to search out for the next whiff of their quarry. There was a moment of sniffing around, then one of them straightened and pointed with a curled forepaw.

The wolves shared a look, their tails curled, and then they bolted off, even faster than before. They dodged around vegetable carts, mule wagons, and startled pedestrians.

Clinching her teeth, Ashura sprinted to catch up.

* * *

Whew, could them doggies run!

Time after time Ash would clap her hands or snap or bark to get 'em to slow down for a bit, but they were eager as tykes running down to the den for their midwinter presents, and sooner or later they sped back up again. A pair of bouncing, bounding pups. It all would've been downright adorable if'n, well…if'n they weren't bounding to hunt down a _friend._

That part gnawed at Alora right fierce.

Shar-Teel had robbed 'em and ran, they were giving chase, and against all odds it looked like they'd catch her easy. Then what? Would there really be some sort of…fight?

Sure, what Shar-Teel had pulled this morning was rotten, but she'd also pulled Alora out of the fire more than a few times over the past season or so. Stuck up for her when they'd been trapped in that magic prison. Pulled the wolves off her when they were trying to use Alora for a chew toy.

Just didn't seem right to set _these_ wolves on Shar-Teel, now.

_'_ _If we find her we're not going to…you know..?'_ She'd asked at one point, on the way to the hoity-toity collector's house.

_'_ _An example must be made of traitors,'_ Edwin'd stated plain.

Ash had seemed a bit less certain. _'_ _She's getting a hard punch in the face, at the least,'_ was all she'd said.

No more talking now. Alora barely had the breath for it anyways.

The wolves zipped around a corner, claws scratching the dirt and stirring up little clouds. A few strides down they halted to test the wind and the earth for the umpteenth time, giving the party a half-second's respite before picking up the trail again. Ash managed a curt wave at an armored guard who was glaring and fingering his halberd.

Dirt-packed streets rolled by, hovels looming (or leaning, all precarious) everywhere around them. Was no small feat for Alora, racing these wolf-twins! They had four legs and she only had two; and stubby ones at that.

'Course, she had always been quicker than most big folks: half the size but four times the vim! And she was tougher than she looked. Could probably hold up a jog like this for a while more, so long as the puppies didn't get any more eager and break into gallop.

If that happened, she'd need to resort to one of the _extra somethings_ that she kept hidden in her pockets. Would be a shame to waste a potion on a non-life-or-death situation, but if she quaffed the _speedy feet_ one she'd be able to zip right along. There were other potions too, hidden on her person: one that would grant _endurance_ (great for if all this running turned into a marathon), a _potion of thievery_ (Alora's fingers were pretty nimble, granted, but there were times that called for an extra edge), and potions of _invisibility_ (can never have too many of those).

Perhaps the most important one, though, was the potion with the _strength_ enchantment on it. Alora'd always had rather shrimpy lil arms, and there'd been more than one burglary in Baldur's Gate where she'd spent a whole night picking her way into a _stunning_ treasure vault only to find that she couldn't haul the best bits away. Had to be content just to stare in awe at the shiny things.

She'd all kinds of tricks hidden in those pockets. In fact, if she drank the _speedy_ potion, she could probably outrun the wolves themselves and catch up with Shar-Teel first, provided she could spot the big lady quick enough. Maybe even keep a fight from breaking out. Somehow.

_Oh!_ A plan began to form in her noggin. Funny how bright ideas sometimes shake loose in there when you're running hard.

Now if she could just spot Shar-Teel first (which would be no small feat, what with how close Alora was to the ground, with bobbing wolf tails in the way and all). Still, she edged to the side of the street and searched ahead, scanning the crowds for any sign of scale armor, a bulky form, a prowly gait, and/or blond hair.

_Where are you Ess-Tee?! I just want to help!_

* * *

On they went, skidding around a corner and then barreling along beside a low, uneven wall. There were obstacles everywhere, here on the crowded streets of the Gem District, from piles of trash to heaps of horse shit to hunched beggars to crude handcarts, shambling donkeys, and shuffling travelers; yet the wolves wove past it all like it was nothing, racing and bobbing in time.

Some of the folk they passed stumbled and gasped. Others barely seemed to notice. More and more milling bodies were pouring into the street, and what were a couple of extra fuzzy pedestrians to them?

Up ahead the dirt path opened onto a wide, paved thoroughfare, clogged with traffic. Large carts and wagons lined the way, drawn by horse or oxen and piled close to spilling with baggage, riders, or produce. People in billowing whites and grays marched along too, several rows deep and all in a hurry.

The wolves slowed just short of the bustling street, tongues lolling and noses brushing the cobbles as they sniffed. Had to be a cacophony of smells out here, but hopefully they'd be able to-

A flash of dirty gold caught Ashura's eye, beyond the line of carts. Blond hair spilled out from beneath a hood, on a figure that stood out above the crowd. A distinctive sword hung from the woman's back.

No need to rely on the hunting hounds now. Ashura pushed past them and strode ahead, weaving through the throng. A wagon clunked in and blocked Shar-Teel from view, but Ashura kept on marching, making for the gap. She felt the wolves close by, at her heels.

Beyond the wagon line she twisted and slipped her way through the crowd, brushing against some as she passed. Over the constant murmur and the creaking of the wagons there was some shouting close by: the protests of an angry pedestrian or two. One of them tried to shove her, but she barely felt it through her armor. She simply pressed a hand against her coinpurse and stomped on.

A husky, bearded fellow twisted in to block her path, flecks of spittle flying as he yelled in her face. Maybe she'd stepped on his foot or brushed him the wrong way or something. Whatever. Her fist flashed up and smashed his nose, knocking him back against some people before he stumbled and dropped on his ass. Ashura kept on walking.

More shouting folk pressed close. The next person to shove at her caught an armored elbow to the jaw, then she was through and onto the other side of the street. Her boots clomped on, eyes sweeping ahead.

_There._ Shar-Teel was easy enough to spot. No mistaking the hilt of Balduran's old sword. The big woman was marching between some houses, down a narrow side street.

Ashura pushed on after, eyes keen on her quarry as she brushed past body after body, then around a heap of trash and an old, broken cart wheel. The crowd on this street was thinner. The distance closed.

"Stop! Stop!" The desperate, squeaking voice came from _right_ ahead, at knee level. Ashura skidded to a stop and looked down, but the street was empty. Alora's voice persisted, as if the cobbles were speaking. "Stop!" she panted out again. "There's no need ta catch her now!"

Shar-Teel had disappeared around a corner. The wolves drew up at Ashura's side, panting hard and facing the spot where the invisible Alora had to be standing. "What are you talking about?" Ashura asked.

There was a clanging sound. "Hear that? It's fulla trade bars. I snagged the bag off Ess-Tee. Even switched it with some rocks so she won't notice right at first! She'll be right peeved when she realizes." Alora giggled. "So now there's no more reason to chase her."

Ashura opened her mouth to retort, then shut it. _Eh_. This was actually a bit of a relief.

"You ought'a take this bag," the invisible halfling went on, "afore my _strength_ potion wears off and the tradebars crush me-"

She was cut off by a flash of light and a heavy object that swept in from the side, enveloping Alora as her words became a high-pitched shriek. The blast of magic struck and adhered to the wall of a nearby house, bobbing and shaking. Appeared to be some sort of prismatic, semi-solid netting, all sticky and bowed at the center where the invisible form was trapped inside.

Varscona was already out, and as Ashura spun to face the source of the spell frost spiraled up from the edge of the blade.

A woman stood a few feet away, on the other side of the street, calm as you please with her arms crossed over her chest. Stringy brown hair framed her face, she'd a horse-like nose and a face all rosy with blemishes, and she was dressed somewhere between dingy sailor and outright beggar. Her eyes were sharp, and her fingers curled, likely ready to fling another spell.

Beside Ashura the wolves let out a low, harmonious growl, hackles raised and muzzles wrinkled. Ashura opened her mouth to speak, but the voice of another stranger beat her to it.

"You were warned, little one." He was talking to Alora and standing over by the web.

Ashura glanced over her shoulder, and caught a glimpse of the short, smarmy fellow from _The Sea's Bounty_. The one who'd claimed to represent 'those who rule these docks.' He'd a dagger in hand, rather close to Alora, who winked into visible range as she squirmed and pushed at the net.

More armed strangers were moving in as well: two cowled fellows cradling crossbows at the far end of the street, and a third sweeping in from the way that Ashura had come. The people who'd been passing through here on regular midday business were making themselves scarce, robes and tunics fluttering as they retreated.

Ashura had both her blades out now, one pointed at the witch with the bad skin and the other aimed at Mr. We Rule the Docks. The man continued to pontificate:

"We told you _not_ to steal in our territory. And look what you did instead: snatched a bag of trade bars off someone in broad daylight, in about the most brazen bit of switch-and-grab I've ever seen."

"Hey now!" Alora protested. "Shar-Teel stole from us first! We was just-"

"That might have been _the_ showiest robbery to ever go down on these streets," the man went on. "I suppose we could expect no less from Alora Luckyfoot of Iraebor." He shook his head. "No regard for subtlety, or the fact that _I'm_ the senior cut-purse in these parts."

The witch with the bad skin laughed. "You've got to go through proper channels here."

"Exactly."

Ashura's eyes kept sweeping up and down the street. Hopefully Edwin would show up soon. The asshole always took his time, since breaking a sweat was beneath him, but you could always count on his magic.

"It's true," the short man went on, "that we don't normally get involved in mercenary squabbles. Thing is, the Dosan woman made a deal with us. A season's worth of protection pay and the promise to put her muscle in for us when asked."

"She _went_ through the proper channels," the witch added. She was moving now, keeping her distance from Ashura while she slid around and across the street. There was a faint humming sound and a glow about her: obviously some protective spell that'd be a pain in the ass to chop through.

_Damnit Edwin._ Soon as he showed up he'd better be ready with a dispel. The mage would be the biggest pain, but once she was out of the way this whole crew of thieves would be easy enough to take down. Of course, if they really represented _the_ Shadow Thieves —the folk who ruled this city— well…

Meantime, the witch's partner waved an accusing finger at Alora. "Just like you should have done, instead of prancing about our city, freelancing and purse-snatching like the queen of thieves herself."

"What now, then?" Ashura snapped. Her wolves let out a complementary growl, and she took a little pleasure at the wary look the witch gave them.

"Recompense, of course," the male thief replied. "Dosan got in good with us. You want things to stay civil, you'll do the same."

"He is demanding a bribe, of course," Edwin stated, finally stepping past one of the crossbowmen and marching down the street. Had his arms crossed over his chest and the usual, haughty look on his face. (Some sort of spell component was clenched in his fist too, but Ashura made sure not to stare and draw too much attention to that).

"That's one way to put it," the man said, and as he did his partner inched right up beside Alora, placed a hand on the halfling's shoulder, and whispered something. Both of them simply popped out of existence, the strands of enchanted webbing slackening. "We'll be keeping the halfling as collateral, to make sure-"

In a blur of fur and claw the wolves grew and lunged, going up on their hind legs. Clawed hands gripped the man's shoulders and slammed him against the brick wall, the dagger falling from his hand. Wolves are fierce and terrifying beasts. Humans are too, in point of fact. Combine the most dangerous aspects of both creatures —claws and fangs and muscled arms and the sweep and reach that comes with an upright stance— and well…

Crossbows thumped from one end of the street, both bolts striking one of the werewolves in the side, only to ricochet off and clatter to the ground. The beast just clenched the thief tighter —the man screaming— and turned its head to shoot the bowmen a snarl. They both backed away.

Ashura shouted over all the growls and screams. "Don't kill him! _Yet._ "

The third bowman had leveled his weapon on Edwin, who glared back. "If you fire," the red wizard stated, "I will turn you to dust."

Feet dangling, face white, and blood seeping down his arms, the short man stammered. "M-Mask's tongue! Werewolves! A pair of bloody werewolves!'

"Yep," Ashura growled, stepping in closer. "And they'll rip you apart if I tell them to. Or maybe we can start off slow. One finger gnawed off at a time."

"I'll-I'll save you the trouble," the thief rasped out. "Your halfling's been taken to Renal's hall. Big building just down the street from the inn that you've been staying at. It's not exactly a secret."

"Good to know."

"Good luck breaking her out, though. If you…if you kill me, or you kick down the doors of that place, you'll be going to war with the Shadows of Amn themselves. You'll be turning a whole city against you, same way it went down with you and The Flaming Fist. And we're not as lenient, especially not Renal. He'll add your scalp to his collection before the sun sets, if you attack him."

His defiant tone provoked a growl from one of the wolves, snout right in his face, and he cringed and turned away. When next he spoke, the thief's words were a bit more measured:

"Look. There were no orders to harm the halfling. Let me go and I'll make sure she's kept safe. We just can't have _unsanctioned_ thieves pillaging about town. The plan was to teach you that lesson, and make you and her agree to become sanctioned."

Ashura glared for a moment. There was a bit of a smell wafting her way. The guy had obviously shat himself. "Drop him," she told her wolves.

They did, and he slid down the wall, hands going to his wounded shoulders as he caught his breath. "Ah," he gasped. "Loviatar brand me. Fuck. The lookouts should have figured out that we were dealing with werewolves."

"You know about what happened with The Flaming Fist?" Ashura asked.

"Oh yeah. We know all about you, Ashura Adrian of Candlekeep. The Terror of the Sword Coast herself. Bhaal's own daughter. Slayer of The Black Talon, the Iron Throne cartel, half The Flaming Fist, and everyone else who got in her way up north." He shot her a weak smile. "We were kind of hoping to strike a deal. Maybe a better one than we made with that Dosan woman. We don't need to be enemies."

"And you're keeping Alora hostage to make us agree?"

His smile widened. "That was the plan." His eyes darted to Durlyle and Delainy, and then he shook his head. "Bloody werewolves. But I guess there's an opportunity here. You seem to have picked up some impressive talent. Put that talent to use for us, and we'll return your friend unharmed."

Gods did she wish that she'd just attacked these bastards before they'd snatched Alora. It was obvious now that they could have taken this man and that mage down, and the archers would have been trivial. Just hadn't acted fast enough. Some wisdom to what this man said though, about how going to war with the Shadow Thieves of Amn would be a bad idea.

"And the gold?" Ashura asked.

The smile disappeared. "That's another matter."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a joke to be made here about Shar-Teel duel classing into a thief, which is something she can do in the game.
> 
> I'm also really nervous about how this particular plot twist plays out. Even though she's *chaotic evil* and all, I kind of feel like Shar-Teel, or at least the version of the character that I've developed over this story, does actually have a sense of loyalty. Hopefully what she did here (which I picture her secretly feeling kind of shitty about) comes off as believable given the circumstances and where her character is at this point.


	7. Enter the Villains

_"As immortals, we shall witness the world changing around us. Do not complain. Instead, adapt! We must constantly adapt, if we wish to keep our immortal lives."_ -Telamont Tanthul, lecturing the assembled princes of Shade

* * *

Ah. It was time for more experiments.

If Vyax Arul's withered lungs could still draw breath, they would have puffed up with delight when the clock on the mantle struck eleven. If his heart still beat, it would have quickened then. Thundered, even. Had he blood in his veins; had he life and breath and zeal, he would have shot up from the chair and marched down to the laboratory then and there.

What actually happened was a slower affair.

Old bones creaked as the lich shifted and closed the covers of his book. He'd barely been paying attention to the words anyway, though it had once been one of his favorite stories. _Tres Hermanos de Crimmor_ , a tale of twisting loyalties, betrayal, vengeance, and retaliation. It had taken Vyax many re-readings to uncover every buried clue and allusion, but that had been decades ago. Now it just served as a comfortable distraction.

One of the lich's bony hands laid the book down while the other waved, dismissing the imp on the opposite side of the table. He'd summoned the creature hours ago to challenge him in a game of chess, but lost interested and left the pieces untouched nineteen moves in. The little beast seemed happy to be whisked back to whatever Hell it had been called from.

There was more creaking as Vyax rose and shuffled out of his study, making his way down a bare stone corridor and past the drainage chamber. The tunnels bent and wound, passing several storage rooms, the library, and the mortuary lab, which Vyax gave a brief glance, pondering if he would need any components from within. A clay golem knelt beside one of the stone slabs, wiping away fresh blood stains, and the shelves were lined with bleached bones and glass jars were organs floated in preserving liquids.

The chamber was a necessity, all lined with the tools and spell components that were vital to the lich's work. Still, the sight of innards, stained bones, and the vacant eyes of the dead had always been unsettling to Vyax, and even in undeath this was not a place he cared to linger. Whenever possible he would use summoned creatures to perform the messier tasks.

And he had no need for bone shards or heat tissue today. He walked on.

Up ahead was the summoning chamber, and beyond that lay the room that housed the lightning-harvesting machines. Now here was some work that he enjoyed! Arcane devices were something he was always pleased to tinker with personally, from the lightning machine, to the imprisoning device, to his newly constructed skyship. And once the lightning cycle was perfected and the ship was ready to sail across the planes, well, entirely new avenues for experimentation would open up!

It had taken six hours for static to build up on the device, though it would all be discharged in less than a minute. He would have to aim and time the bolts with care, but he was certain that, with a few more trials, he would find the angle that closed the loop completely. Then it would just be a matter of determining how long the chain of lightning mephits could be maintained. An unconventional power source, but if it could be made completely self-sustaining…

A dozen paces short of the chamber and his beloved device, Vyax halted. Something was tugging at his senses. Annoying. His neck creaked as he cocked his head, reaching out with his mind to the wards and the portal that led into the complex. _Yes?_

_I return, as requested_ , a feminine voice trilled back through the telepathic link. _And I come bearing gifts._

_Ah._ Well, that was a surprise. A welcome one, perhaps. He did not often entertain callers. After making sure that the proper wards and guardians were in place, and that his spell components were all there at his belt, Vyax willed the portal open.

_Very well,_ he projected back at his guest. _Enter. You will find me in a southwest chamber, past the prison halls and the room with the devices. Mind the guardians. And know that you are being watched._ Always make them come to you, so that you may choose the ground. That was a rule Vyax remembered faintly from past intrigues.

The woman seemed to catch on. _Alright then. Here I come, jumping through your hoops, Master Arul._ There was a teasing tone to her voice.

Vyax turned and made his way to the center of the summoning chamber. This room was carved out from natural stone, sturdy and well protected. If his guest betrayed him and it came to violence, nothing of consequence would be damaged here.

There was something suspicious about the vampire's sudden appearance, after all. Vyax had not expected her to move so quickly. In truth, he had doubted that she would be able to pull off her burglary at all, let alone in mere days. Although… _hm_. Thinking on it, it _had_ been about a tenday since their last meeting. One tends to lose track of time, down here in the dark.

An unnatural bank of fog came rolling through one of the doorways, slithering down the natural slope of the floor to settle at the lowest point. From there it rose and solidified into a humanoid shape, mist becoming ghost-pale skin and shadows stretching to form a black bodystocking and bejeweled boots.

As usual, the vampire's outfit was scant and form-fitting, displaying a great deal of chiseled musculature as she stretched to her full height (well over six feet —in life she had probably been an elf of the wild forest tribes), arms high and toes rising for a languid pirouette. No doubt the clothing and body language was intended to draw out a reaction: some combination of lust and wide-eyed shock at this creature's brazenness. Once, long ago, a blush would have risen to Vyax's cheeks at the sight.

Those days were long past, however. Just memories of memories now. Probably for the best; caution and sobriety would serve him well against a creature such as this. Vyax focused on the object that the vampire carried between her paws: a rainbow-patterned orb. The colors seemed to dance and shift across the stone's surface.

"So you did bring it," Vyax said. "Or so it seems. A short time to plan and execute such a difficult heist." This was a rogue stone in the vampire's hands, certainly, but that was no guarantee that it was the one from Priamon's vault, marked with the correct enchantments.

The vampire laughed, displaying her fangs. "The Frostrune's defenses were nowhere _near_ as impregnable as you made them out to be. Certainly not for little old me. I once broke into the sacred vaults of Suldanessellar, you know."

Vyax inclined his head. He knew little of elven palace intrigue, or if any of what she claimed was even true. Nor did he particularly care. "Good then. So long as the stone is genuine, and no clue was left that will allow Priamon to trace it here, I shall honor our agreement. Your clan will have a place in this city, and I shall vouch for you to the others in my order." He stretched out his hand, palm up.

The vampire didn't move any closer. Her fangs still showed. "We're quite eager to move in."

"Once I have verified the properties of the stone, of course. And I will need to speak with my order."

With a flick of her wrist the vampire sent the stone sailing upward, nearly brushing the ceiling before it dropped back to her palm. "That sounds like something that will take a bit of time, no?" she said. "Smoothing things out with the Twisted Rune? Politicking?"

"It will," Vyax admitted, eyes following the stone as it was tossed up again. Was she trying to negotiate for something more? Or stall? The lich kept his hand out, while the other crept to his bag of spell components. "What does it matter? We are immortal."

" _We_ are impatient." Again, the rogue stone flew, and again the vampire caught it. There was a single rune stamped across its surface. "I know that _some_ ancient creatures just love to dodder and deliberate. They think ahead a hundred moves before making the first. All of that…"

The stone flew up and down. Up and down. A spell of telekinesis could be used to snatch it from the air and end this silly game, but…did he even want it? That sigil seemed to be an elven mark. That meant that the stone was _not_ one of Priamon's creations. This was all a ruse.

Vyax wrapped his fingers around the gem in his pocket where a _spell sequencers_ was stored.

"…but some of us lack that kind of patience," the vampire continued. "Some of us are creatures of action. We move. We react. We seize."

_Well then_. This was all quite familiar and predictable: that moment of betrayal, when a bargain goes south and turns to violence. Having spent most of his life _and_ undeath in Athkatla, Vyax had been through it all many times. It did seem stupidly audacious, though, to attack a lich in his own lair.

Again the rogue stone flew and then dropped into the vampire's open palm, but this time she flicked her wrist and hurled it against the ground before her. The elven sigil flared just before impact, then the sphere shattered.

Light burst into being around Vyax as well, a constellation of protective magics going up: repellent arcs of energy, flashing shields, layers of force, and a stone-like membrane that covered his skin and robes.

Where the rogue stone had shattered a cloud of ether expanded, coiling and climbing to solidify into the form of a man. Behind this new intruder the vampire collapsed back into a bank of fog, slithering backward and away.

Vyax pointed a hand, open-palmed, at them both. Such arrogance. His fingers circled, calling up a powerful spell that would blast the two of them away, mist or no.

The man who had been smuggled inside the stone pointed and circled as well, mimicking the lich's words and gestures, his voice casual and dry. White-hot flames boiled into being across Vyax's palm, only to whiff out in a puff, his spell countered.

Well that was…a surprise. This intruder was a powerful spellcaster. Odd in appearance, too: he had a bit of a sylvan look to him (one of those big, wild elves from the Wealdath, perhaps), yet his face was stretched and warped by vein-like lines. Preservation magic? Some form of lichdom?

Vyax commanded every construct and summoned creature within the facility to make haste. _Attack this intruder._

The stranger was already casting another spell, fingers blurring, then his entire form shimmered. Nothing _seemed_ to happen, but Vyax knew an illusion when he saw one. He countered, bathing the room in a flash of light that wiped away every mirage. The stranger (an illusory double) vanished, and his true location was revealed, over by one of the chamber's exits.

A foolish place to stand. The first of the stone golems that Vyax had called on came thundering through the doorway now, two more close behind, their fists all raised to pummel the intruder. The first one stepped into range and hammered down…

…only to be repelled by layers of protective shielding. The golem bounced away and teetered, clanking against its companions and nearly bowling them all over. With a gesture and a word of transmutation the stranger warped the floor beneath the construct's feet, and all three sank, legs swallowed up by liquefied earth.

Vyax was not idle while this happened. He blasted at the intruder's protective wards.

The stranger summoned up more.

Another round of flashing light and dancing sparks passed between them. Somewhere in between those volleys the stranger managed to turn the ground solid again, trapping the golems in waist-deep rock. Their fists pounded impotently against the floor, chips of stone flying.

Again, the stranger's protections were stripped away, and now Vyax aimed a spell that would end this all in one stroke. Green light flared up on his fingertip.

The stranger's finger circled, and the destructive light went out, precisely countered. Vyax took a sidestance, conjuring up fire instead, and the stranger matched his pose. _Mirror, mirror._ An orb of white-hot flame bloomed, drifted a short distance from the lich's fingertips, and then puffed out.

An unfamiliar noise escaped from the lich's withered lips; one he had not made or heard in decades. Fuming and frustrated, he barked a spell of ice, a polar-white ray shooting from his palm.

No counter this time; instead the stranger backed a step and was swallowed by a portal as the ray passed by. _Blast it!_ Vyax whirled, spraying ice crystals across the room and coating the walls. The wards here would prevent the stranger from teleporting outside the…there!

The stranger had merely moved to the opposite wall. Ice crackled as the ray streaked close, then ran dry a few feet short, leaving a sparkling trail. The stranger raised a finger, electricity buzzed, and now it was Vyax's turn to twist and shout out a counter. Sparks fell across the floor.

At the same time clicks and hissing sounds erupted from one of the tunnels, and then a swarm of mephits came buzzing in. They swept the intruder from all sides, some roaring with flame while others trailed ice or smoke or slime. Little creatures, but they could scald or freeze or slash at unprotected skin well enough, and there were about a dozen of the things. They might-

The stranger's hands shot out, his face cold and calm, then countless pinpricks of light flickered into being and launched from his fingertips, arcing and corkscrewing to seek out each and every imp. Sparks burst, accompanied by burning blood and ice shards and ichor. Raspy voices shrieked. Within half a beat every mephit had dropped to the floor; shattering, melting, oozing, or puffing out.

It was a jarring display of power and efficiency. Still, the mephits had served as a distraction. Vyax had his own spell in the air now: a storm of arcane bolts much like the ones the stranger had launched.

They streaked in towards his enemy, then shattered in a useless lightshow as a fresh globe of protection flared into being.

_You have **got** to be joking! _Had Vyax the breath for it, he would have bellowed in frustration then. Instead, his magic did the roaring for him, rocks flying as he called up a massive wind elemental.

The winds only swirled and howled for a moment's span before the stranger banished them, but that bought Vyax enough time to throw a piercing spell against the stranger's defenses.

The stranger retaliated. Vyax deflected, replying in kind. Lightning stabbed the stone walls. Acid sizzled and splashed at the lich's feet. Smoke curled up from his singed robes.

Through it all the stranger stood calm and mechanical, going through the motions of spell after spell after spell. He didn't even show emotion when a blast of lighting finally — _finally!_ — pierced his defenses and sent him slumping back against a stone outcropping.

Vyax took no chances, rattling out the most powerful evocation that he could. It bathed the entire end of the chamber in explosive bursts of flame, shaking the floor and making the very stones weep and glow. _Checkmate!_ Deep in the heart of the firestorm, blackened bones danced and then collapsed.

After a time the flames died back, and as he watched them Vyax felt a ridiculous urge to sit down. To rub his head. To let out a relieved sigh. _Hm._ Had this been a mortal battle, he would be wiping sweat from his brow right now.

Instead he straightened and thought of the next move. The vampire would need to be-

"Appears I'm just in time," her voice called from the hallway right behind him.

Vyax turned, and as he did he heard a second voice; one that would have chilled his blood were is still flowing through his veins. "Yes," the other agreed, tone dry and disinterested. "He proved quite the match for my simulacrum."

There, leaning against the doorframe, was the stranger that Vyax had just fought a furious duel with. Unscathed.

_Simulacrum._ Vyax glanced over at the dying embers of the firestorm. The charred bones were gone; melted away like snow. If…if that truly had been a mere simulacrum of this mage —a weak duplicate woven from shadow stuff— and the real thing was twice as powerful…

He stared at the stranger. As Vyax had first observed, there was something lich-like about this man, his eyes sunken and lifeless. Lich-like, but not quite: his stance and physique spoke of vitality, and there was a strong smell of preservative magic about him.

The stranger's dress seemed elven; arms and chest left bare, and the straps of his harness and leather epaulets imbued with sylvan symbols. He also wore a riveted skullcap in the style of a Nar Demonbinder, an intricate bronze scarab of Imaskari origin over his breastbone, a bejeweled belt that was obviously a Netherize artifact, and Thayan tattoos along his forearms. Whoever —or whatever— this creature was, he carried an arsenal of powerful and eclectic magic about him.

And Vyax had just wasted his best spells on a mere simulacrum.

The vampire came slinking in beside the stranger, a jewel-encrusted device in her hand. "A clock for a phylactery," she spoke to Vyax, teasing. "Funny. Guess your time is up." She handed the device (the thing that anchored the lich's very soul to this world!) over to the stranger.

If Vyax Arul still had a beating heart it would have thundered now. It did not, but for the first time in half a century the lich actually felt something. Not a memory. Not an impression. True, raw, overwhelming terror.

Panicking, he threw his hands forward and began a desperate spell.

The stranger reacted as quickly and as casually as his simulacrum had, pointing and chanting a bit of necromancy. A wave swept over the lich, tightening and locking his limbs into place. He struggled to move, but found himself stiff as a true corpse.

There had never been a chance. This pair of creatures had invaded and attacked him in his own lair, a fortress he had spent decades securing, and yet there had never been a chance. This man —some ancient elven high mage— had merely toyed with him, forcing him to expend his resources and attention while the vampire had flittered past his defenses like they were a joke and stolen his phylactery from its vault.

_Focus! Focus!_ Through will and desperation, Vyax _made_ his jaw quake, then open, ready to force out words.

His first instinct was to flee. To shout out a teleportation spell. But no; there would be no escape from a man who held his very soul in the palm of his hand. So instead, Vyax did the next thing that came to mind. The most practical thing. He begged:

"I will serve you! Please! Think on it! A lich at your command, in good standing with The Twisted Rune. I can summon armies of servants. I command gates to other worlds. There…there is a portal to the Elemental Plane of Air in this complex, where I've been constructing a ship. I can show you how to fly it to any plane you wish! And-"

"No," the stranger cut him off. "I've no need for your 'loyalty.' You were in the process of betraying one of your fellows when you hired my sister, after all." His cold blue eyes swept the summoning chamber. "I will take this facility, however. It will suit my needs, with a little repurposing. My thanks."

"I can help you make use-"

"Your services will not be required. All you need do now is die by my hand." And with that the stranger muttered something under his breath and crushed the phylactery. An explosion of white light filled Vyax's vision, overwhelming all else.


	8. Ranging

_"Did you just_ not _notice the skulls and the devil's heads stamped across our armor? Or the spikes? Or the excessive use of black and red? We are the villains here. Accept it. Embrace it!"_ -Scylluia Darkhope, berating a subordinate

* * *

Mirtul 27, 1369 D.R.

The door swung open and a man stepped into the bedroom; a slight, short fellow, dressed in crisp black and white, with a carefully trimmed beard and slicked-back hair that had gone eschew. He didn't notice Imoen at first, on account of the parchment that he held up close to his eyes. Seemed he was reading it over and over, brow furrowed.

When he did finally look up and catch sight of her –well– that didn't calm him down one bit. His eyes practically bugged out of his head, and he took a step backwards, only to bump into Viconia. That made him gasp, then a shove from the drow sent him tumbling all the way into the room.

Viconia followed him in, shutting the door and fixing the poor fellow with a glare.

"So," Imoen chirped from her seat at the tavern-room's desk. "What'cha reading?"

No response.

"Mind if I take a peak?" With a wave of her hand and a little act of will she ripped the parchment from the man's fingers and it fluttered on over. She caught the letter, reading it quick:

_'Hervo,_

_Words cannot express my sorrow at the position my actions have placed you in. Had I known that this would happen, and that the Cowled Ones would react as they did, well, I would have dismissed you from my service long ago as a protective measure._

_All I can do now is warn you that they are likely to seek you out, and if you are captured they will not treat you well. Flee as fast as you can._

_Enclosed with this letter is a key to the household safe. Take everything you can carry. Then run. Get out of the city. Go to ground. And do not look for me._

_With sincerest apologies,  
Valygar Corthala'_

Imoen turned the letter this way and that in her hand. "'Do not look for me,'" she quoted. "That kinda implies that ya know where this Valygar Corthala fellow's gone off to, don't it?"

"I…I…" the fellow stammered.

Imoen could certainly sympathize with the poor sod, but for the sake of getting this over with quick-like she affected a predatory smile. (Well, she hoped it looked that way, at least. Was a little new to the intimidation game).

"I suggest you tell us," Viconia whisper-hissed into the man's ear, slithering right up against his back. "Quickly. You know what I am. Do you also know what my people _do_ to pry out information?"

"Not the prettiest of things," Baeloth suggested, appearing with a flourish from a corner of the cramped room. He'd been invisible up until then. Nice entrance. Showing all his teeth, he leaned forward, eye to eye with Hervo. "For many a drow, a smidge of light torture is considered a quaint afternoon's diversion."

"None of that needs happen to you, though," Imoen insisted, waving a hand and climbing up from her chair. "We're only here to find out where this Valygar fellow's scampered off to. You tell us that, and…" she snapped her fingers "…we're out of your hair. Pretty as you please. Like you never met us."

Hervo shuddered. "Not…not telling you a thing," he managed, clenching his jaw. He was shivering all over.

"You will," Viconia hissed. "One way or another."

Imoen took a step closer. "I promise you'll be okay, soon as you tell us. Right as rain." She pointed a finger in Hervo's direction, whispering an incantation. "You know you can trust me, right?"

Light flashed across the man's eyes, and his posture eased a bit. There were still little shivers running through his body, though.

"Relax," Imoen insisted.

He nodded. He did.

"Goodie. So, where is that big scoundrel hiding, anyways?" She asked the question with what she hoped was her winningest smile. She was cribbing a lot here from Xan's tried-and-true interrogation book: first ya startle the target as much as ya can, then blindside 'em with some sort of enchantment spell, and finally you get the deets out of 'em right quick, before the target can gather their resolve. Clean and simple, when it works.

There was a moment of waring feelings on Hervo's face, then the manservant seemed to get sleepy and nod his head. _Good_. "I'm not…certain." Those words had Imoen worrying a sec, but then Hervo actually took on a thoughtful look, like he was trying to puzzle it all out himself. "There is land, still owned by the Corthala's, out in the Umar Hills. In a village called Imnesvale. The master spent as much time out there as he did in the city, and he has several friends in those woods. From his days in the scouts. Wardens who guard the region. Perhaps he'd seek them out."

"Umar Hills and Imnesvale. With the local wardens. That's good to know. What about other friends or family?"

Hervo shook his head. "He is the last Corthala. And a rather…private person. No family, and his only real friends would be out there on the frontier."

"I see. Just the wardens then? Well, thank for that, at least, my good man Hervo." Imoen smiled, and gave the poor sod a thumbs up for good measure. _Well, at least that's a lead._ And no need to do it the messy way. Enchantments sure came in handy, used right. "Now, as promised, we'll just be-"

There was a flash of red accompanied by flecks of shadow as Viconia closed her fingers around Hervo's neck. The poor man threw his head back and howled, then smoke hissed up from the edges of his mouth and he went through a couple of violent shudders, eyes rolling back. Just a few beats, and then he went slack. A shove from Viconia sent him sprawling, head smacking the floorboards.

"Wha-?" Imoen stammered. "Nine _fucking_ Hells!"

Down on the floor, Hervo's eyes were still wide open; empty and leaking smoke.

"I said we were just going to frighten him! Then I was going to use a _suggestion_ spell to-"

"You said those things," Viconia agreed, cutting her off. "I agreed to nothing. Spells are uncertain. Death is not. You know this."

"But he-"

"We hunt a mage-killer. A dangerous man. We must take every precaution." Brooking no further debate, Viconia turned and opened the door. "Come. I will use Shar's power to keep the eyes of the tavern patrons off of me, and I suggest you go invisible as well."

"Wise," Baeloth agreed. "In and out like shadows." He made a gesture, and in a blink he'd vanished.

Imoen lingered, looking down at the gaping mouth and eyes of the dead manservant. _Damnit!_

Now, if one were to go all lawyerly they could probably point out several instances over the past year when Imoen had performed acts that might be considered… _eh_ , no point in sugar-coating it, really: times when she'd committed cold-blooded murder. Killing that Halruaan mage (who had tried to murder her, Skie, and Alora beforehand) for instance. Or all those archers on all those battlefields, who she'd snuck up on and stabbed in the vitals. That charmed lady who's throat she'd slit probably counted too. And then there was her own half-brother, Sarevok Anchev, who she'd raced to find, blindsided, and sliced in the jugular quick as you please.

Hadn't licked at her conscious one bit either, murdering folks who were out to murder her and hers. But this poor fellow…now here was a clear case of a working shlub who'd just gotten caught in the crossfire. Was a damned shame.

There'd be more like him too. Maybe this Valygar guy. The Cowlies claimed he was a murderer, but the words in that letter painted him as the noble sort, actually caring 'bout his servant and all.

Shaking her head, Imoen turned towards the door. They were under orders to take Valygar alive, if possible. She could at _least_ work towards that. Hammer it into the head of a certain Sharan priestess, maybe.

With that in mind, she activated her ring, flickering from sight and on slipping down the hall.

* * *

Mirtul 31, 1369 D.R. (Four Days Later)

_Whew!_

Imoen had to stop for a beat to wipe the sweat off her brow and adjust her wobbly pack before she could continue on up the dusty slope. This here was rough country, off the well-trod dirt of the Imnescourse Trail and on up the side of one forest hillock after another. Bare rock and hearty trees loomed all about, marching along the rises that the local folk here called the Umar Hills, all dappled now with the light of the sinking sun.

That light shone 'specially bright off of Minsc's smooth scalp. In fact, when the glint caught at just the right angle it was downright blinding, and it'd made Imoen turn her head and blink at several points along the trail. Ah well; at least the sun wasn't beating down on her neck no more. Felt like she had a bit of a sunburn coming on after the day's march.

A presence slipped in near Imoen's side, and then it went tromping by, chin high and arms a-pumping. Hips a-strutting too. Kirian!

_Oh no ya don't!_ Imoen quickened her pace and got in beside the other woman, which required quite a bit of hustle on account of her legs being so much shorter. They went on like that for a time, huffing and race-walking up the hill.

'Course, no matter how fast they marched they were unlikely to ever overtake Minsc. The big fellow had the lead by _far_ , just about dancing over the jagged rocks and gnarled roots that marked the trail. (Sometimes those rocks or roots made effective steps for Imoen to boost off of, but more often they conspired to trip her up). Minsc seemed at home out here, happy as a hamster in his wheel.

Seeing him like that brought a smile to Imoen's lips. Felt a bit like old times, with Minsc leading the way through the hills and forests, tracking a quarry and all puffed up with purpose. Imoen was about to open her big old cakehole and say something to that effect —'bout the adventures they'd had in the Cloudpeaks a year back— but then she thought better and sealed her lips. Didn't want to remind the big guy of _who_ they'd been tracking that time, considering the bad end the poor witch had gone through later on.

Minsc crested the rise and kept going, with Imoen and the rest scrambling to follow. There was a pretty nice view to be had up here: the peaks of the Small Teeth Mountains visible in the distance; all smoky-blue and evenly-filed. Closer by, the trail switch-backed down through pine stands and thick foliage, and at the lowest point it forded a stream.

"Can't we rest a moment?!" Viconia shouted, still climbing and well behind the rest of them.

The big guy slowed a smidge, but didn't stop. "No." He pointed ahead. "Boo says the best spot for camping is just down there. See it?" And with that he went on skipping down the trail.

Seemed that Boo had a good eye for campsites. Some ways down the hill there was an outcropping of rock that looked like it would shelter them well enough from the western winds or rain. An old fire pit sat in the shadow of the boulders, demonstrating that other travelers'd had the same notion.

"Suppose we won't be making that Imnesvale place this eve," Imoen said as they neared the site.

"Yes," Viconia huffed. "I was hoping for a bath. And a real bed."

"Wouldn't get my hopes up, regardless," Kirian put in. "Village this remote, it's bound to be a one horse town. A one donkey town, even. No way there's a local inn that's up to your majesty's standards."

"True enough," Viconia agreed, ignoring the sarcasm and sitting down by the fire circle. "A hayloft is likely the best we can hope for." As per usual, it looked like she wasn't going to do a damn thing to help make camp. Up to the rest of 'em to get to work.

"Yeah," Imoen said as she unrolled her tent and got out the bag of pegs. "Gotta miss all that nice, soft living back at the Mithrest Inn." She'd didn't miss it, of course. Was kind of a relief to be back on the trail now, living the life she'd gotten used to over the past year. There was something soothing 'bout the cricket songs at night, and this time o' year the air was _just_ the right level of crisp and cool in the evenings.

She was used to sleeping on the rough ground, too. No worries there. And the griminess of accumulated sweat and road-dust was uncomfortable at first, but then you adapt, and then you totally forget that you're a smelly mess until some snob like Viconia reminds you. A real bath was probably a ways off, and ah well to that.

"Of course," Imoen went on, "we'll feel pretty stupid if we find Imnesvale right over that hill in the morning."

Minsc had moved in at her side, kneeling down and lining up a tent peg. He hammered it down with a rock. "Boo says the village is a league or two's distance, still. And he says that getting caught after dark would be bad."

Kirian had found a place across from them, working at the other side of the tent. "Way they talked in Imnescar," she said, "these woods are crawling with goblins at night. Werewolves too. And if we bump into this Valygar character, it's be best we do it fresh."

"Caution," Viconia agreed. "Yes."

"That would be a good change of pace," Imoen mused. "Instead of thundering and blundering into stuff like normal."

_'Ideally, he is to be captured alive,'_ that cowled fellow had told her. _'Barring that, bring us his corpse. As well-preserved as you can manage. If it is badly burned or otherwise damaged, our deal is off.'_

_Yick_. Heck of a price to pay for a magic license: being sent to hunt a man halfway across Amn, then lugging him –possibly as a decomposing cadaver– back to Athkatla. The Cowled Stick-in-the-Muds had insisted that Valygar was a dangerous man. Said he'd murdered two of their own, then gone to ground. Pretty obvious there was more going on here, though. She'd have to keep her eyes open when they started sneaking around Imnesvale.

Imoen finished looping the rope she'd been working on, tugged it taut, then tied it off. _There!_ Three pairs of hands got the tents up pretty fast.

Out on the periphery of the camp, Baeloth was going about his usual routine as well, poking and prodding every stone and leaf with his staff as he surveyed the wood. The fellow always had to check for potential ambushes or lurking creatures before he could settle down. Good he did that, too: there'd been a couple times on the journey to Amn when he'd spotted packs of goblins or gnolls off in the distance.

Tents erected, they all went through the next few steps of practiced campsite raising. Gear was unpacked. Turns were taken peeing in the bushes. Firewood was fetched by the armful, and kenneling was carefully arranged. Flames were lit. All told, it wasn't long before they had a crackling fire going and a primitive spit set up over it, which they used to roast the last two rabbits that Minsc and Kirian had caught the other day.

As the smell of cooking meat started wafting around and prickling their noses, Imoen got out her trusty pan, a hunk of butter, and a few fistfuls of some greens she'd bought back in Imnescar. Her dad had always been keen on fixing them full and rounded meals, with your greasy meats, your buttered breads, your 'taters, your beats and carrots, and at least what he called a 'rabbit's helping' of the green stuff.

_'If you wanna have strong and hearty bones ta support the rest of yer girth, ma girl, you've got to have yer greens!'_ he'd always say. Words she tried to live by.

Daylight was still hanging on (by a thread) when their meal got done. There was no real chill yet in the air, but out of habit the five of them sat pretty close as they munched on their hunks of rabbit, along with sliced hard-bread slathered with the wilted greens, which Imoen had gussied up with some sweetened vinegar. Twas quite delicious, all told.

A wineskin was passed around to wash it all down, and when Imoen took it she raised it up, her eyes stinging a little, and gave her dad a silent salute. He'd taught her well. Hopefully he was enjoying a hearty meal too, in whatever afterlife he'd found himself in.

* * *

"I am beginning to dislike this 'spring' of yours," Baeloth remarked, a little while after they'd finished their eveningfeast. "The glaring light of the surface was irritating enough, but now I am to understand that it will be beating down on me for _longer_ and _longer_ spans?"

"Yup," Imoen said. "The days are gonna get longer, brighter, and hotter."

"How dreadful! How oppressive!"

"Us surface folk feel just the opposite. It's a big relief for us when the winter ends and the sunlight comes back. They even say that the people who live wayyy up north, where there's longer winters and less daylight, are prone to be morose and depressed, on account of not getting any sun." She crinkled her lips a moment, thinking. "Hm. Oh! Maybe it's the lack of sunlight what makes you drow such vicious grumps!"

Viconia huffed. "Hardly. That we are not slaves to nature's cycles is part of our strength."

"Eh. Well. Maybe." Imoen fell silent, chewing on the notion. She'd never really thought about what it would be like to live with _none_ of the patterns of light or heat or weather that she took for granted. Might go a ways towards explaining why these elves from the underground had such an alien way of looking at things.

The rest chattered on, and soon Kirian managed to steer the conversation away from drow superiority (and drow whining), as the twilight deepened and they finished cleaning up after the meal. Eventually the talking petered out, replaced by the rustle of spellbooks and the sound of Minsc cleaning his blade with a rag.

The big guy had taken a position on the edge of their little ring, where he could watch the woods and the dark. It was his habit to always take lookout duty like that, and they'd long ago stopped asking 'Who's on first watch?' on account of it always being Minsc.

A little conjured light helped with Imoen's reading, and pretty soon her memory was refreshed spell-wise (hadn't magically exerted herself much today), and she was on to a different book. Pleasure reading, you might call it. Maybe?

Garrick's tome _was_ the sort that she'd have enjoyed back in the day, scouring the shelves of Candlekeep for adventure stories. Certainly had a provocative title: _'Terror of the Sword Coast.'_ Sure would have drawn a younger Imoen's eyes.

A little jarring, though, when yer name appears regularly in the adventure tale, and you don't even recognize some of the adventures. Or the characters. _Who_ is _this Imoen lady I keep reading about, anyways? Surely I'm not_ that _bubbly!_ Well, mayyybe she could be kinnnd of a ditz, but she certainly didn't remember ever trying to befriend a gnoll named Ludrug or-

_"Scree! Screeee!_ " Boo was squeaking up a storm.

Imoen snapped her book shut and launched up onto her feet, grabbing her bow off the nearby rock. All around her, the others were moving too, Minsc at the forefront with his greatsword raised. A figure stood beyond the edge of the clearing, over in the brush; a fuzzy smudge at first, but then Imoen's _infravision_ snapped to life and she got a better look. Tall. Male. Armored. Holding a bow, but not taking aim or anything. He had a longsword hanging off his belt, too. There seemed to be twigs and leaves dangling from his armor.

The intruder raised a fist up to his mouth and coughed. "Sorry to startle you folks," he said.

Her bow strung, Imoen snatched up an arrow and nocked it, eyes scanning the forest.

"We just noticed you strangers camping here, and figured we'd come out and greet you," the intruder continued.

_'We.' Yeah._ There was a wisp of heat-sign out in the forest; at least one other stranger, hiding behind the bole of a tree. Imoen raised her bow and sighted on the lurker, but then the glow shifted out of sight. She caught another glimmer over by a rock. The people out there were good at hugging their cover.

Stepping back, Imoen willed her other ring to activated and winked out of sight.

At the same time, Kirian spoke up. "You're one of those clever bandits, huh?" She had a spellcasting finger leveled on the intruder, and her sword was out in her other hand. "Got some big, blow-hard speech you give to everyone you rob? We've heard it all before."

"What? No. Quite the opposite." The intruder actually sounded a bit offended.

A few quiet steps to the left put the lurker back in Imoen's sight. She took aim and held steady.

"We're what passes for the law out here," the stranger went on, tapping his chest. "Patrolling these border trails on the authority of Warden Merella. We keep an eye out for dangers entering the region. You know, dangers like, say, a heavily armed band of mercenaries. Three of them mages. Two of them drow."

"Hey now," Imoen blurted out. "We're not threatening anyone!"

"Says a woman who's just made herself invisible and aimed a bow at my companion."

"Just bein' cautions, Mr. Sneaks-Up-in-the-Night! Look, we're only wandering through. We promise-"

"Are you?" The man fixed his eyes on Kirian. "Just passing through? You're not here to, say, hunt down a man named Valygar Corthala?"

_Ooo boy!_

Imoen couldn't see Kirian's face from this angle, but the stranger could, and his eyes narrowed further. Imoen'd played cards with Kirian before. She had a _terrible_ bluffing face. "Thought as much," the stranger went on. "A party of mages and all. Even if you aren't wearing cowls."

"The Cowled Wizards want Valygar," Imoen admitted, words as measured as she could make them. "Sure." _Diplomacy._ _Think diplomatic thoughts._ It's what the Imoen from Garrick's book would be doing. "They say he's murdered some of them, and they've put out a bounty. But we don't want no bloodshed. Maybe we can speak with the fellow himself, and we can-"

She was interrupted by a blaze of white light, somewhere behind her. It was bright enough to turn night to day, stinging her eyes and forcing her to blink. Something solid bumped and jostled her at the same time, and she squirmed and tried to twist from it. Too late though; a steely grip caught her wrist.

The arrow she'd been readying to shoot was gone now (snatched away). She seemed to be casting a shadow now too, all long and snaky in front of her (and that meant that she'd gone visible. The light had been some sort of dispel).

Next came a flash of steel at the edge of her vision, and when she looked that way she found herself staring at the surface of a sword's blade, next to her cheek and angled so the edge was a knuckle's length from her neck. Was some sort of long, curved weapon, polished so bright she could see her eyes reflected in the steel. (So yeah: definitely not invisible no more).

So much for diplomacy.

"Be still," a male voice ordered, right into her ear. "Keep still. All of you."

Her companions had all turned inward, looking at her (and presumably at the captor who'd just slipped in and put the blade to her neck). Baeloth stood the closest, a finger pointed and a fizz of impotent smoke rising up from it. He looked down his nose and gave that finger an irritated shake. "Some sort of…anti-magic is it?" he grumbled. "How utterly _unfair_!"

"Yes," the voice in Imoen's ear stated. "I countered your tricks." The blade shifted a bit and Imoen could feel the cold and sharp of it. An involuntary shiver ran down her back.

('Course, there was a more reserved part of her too, doing some thinkin' somewhere in the background while the rest of her clenched and shuddered. Thinkin' lightning fast. Thinkin' that the weapon near her neck was long and curved, obviously designed to chop. That made it an awkward thing ta threaten a throat with at close quarters, and maybe if she shifted to the side and did the right sort of squirming this man would have a hard time actually breaking her skin).

"This girl is your leader," the hostage-taker went on. "She said she didn't want bloodshed. I don't either."

The others were listening and measuring things up, except for Minsc. His eyes were practically bugging out of his head, neck-muscles all aquiver. Standing tall, he drew in a long, deep breath, and seemed to grow yet another foot in height. Then he lurched forward.

"Back off!" the hostage-taker snarled.

Minsc didn't. He stomped nearer and nearer, greatsword up in the air. Through bared, clenched teeth he spoke. "You…"

"Calm down."

"…will not hurt my witch."

"I've no intention of-"

"YOU WILL NOT!" Spittle flew. His eyes were bloodshot. There was no concept of leverage or risks or consequences in 'em. He was just a rearing, bristly bear.

Imoen's jaw had fallen open at some point. She appreciated the big guy's passion. Really, she did. The fact that she was about to get her throat sliced open because of it was…less appreciated.

"I won't hurt her if you just _back off_ , madman!"

Of course he didn't. Instead Minsc lunged.

He lunged and his sword went swiping before him and the fool-man behind Imoen scuttled back for space and pulled her with him and she took her chance then to twist and wriggle and dip and duck and her cloak ended up in the stranger's hand instead of her arm and then it was off her shoulder and the stranger tumbled back and she rolled aside, all in a blink.

Minsc's sword whooshed down and sliced the fabric of the discarded cloak. Somewhere else a bowstring (or maybe several) thumped, and a cry of pain went up near the tents.

Closer by, Imoen felt Minsc lurch in right beside her, one hand wielding his sword now while the other patted her on the shoulder. "You are saved," the berserker stated, and then he went thundering past. There was an arrow stuck in the shoulder-guard of his armor, the fletching bobbing with every step or swing he took.

_'Saved.' Uh. Yeah._

Imoen spun and scrambled for the rock where she'd set her quiver, but before she'd took three steps the man with the leaves in his armor came barreling in to get in her way, his sword out and his mouth wide open; screaming a battle cry. Was all she could do to skitter backwards and grip the hilt of her ruby-hued sword, then the end of the ranger's blade came stabbing _right_ for her eye.

She dodged, and for the second time in about the same number of minutes she saw her face reflected in the flat of a sword. Her hair was a mess. The one front braid was all frizzy and falling apart. Really needed to redo it.

Then the blade flashed past her face and she ducked low, her own sword leaping from its sheath as the enchantment on it flowed through her limbs. Limbering them. Quickening them. She danced back and dipped away from his slashes, again and again. The ranger pressed. She kept dipping and evading, nerves a'tingle and reflexes faster than they had any right to be.

An easy hop to the side, and then she took a swing of her own, sword chopping for the man's wrist. He parried; a fierce swing that jarred her arm just about out of its socket. _Damn!_

She tried to weave away and had to block one of his slashes, her wrist stinging and her own sword tapping against her shoulder, knocked back by the force of the blow. _Yowch!_ More and more desperate back-hopping followed. She could dodge, but she just didn't have the muscle or training to go sword-to-sword with this guy.

_Yeah Minsc! Your witch feels sooo safe right now!_

Maybe it was a coincidence. Or _maybe_ the big lug actually heard her thought somehow. Either way, the next thing Imoen knew a streak of steel came flashing in from the periphery, caving in the face of the guy she'd been fighting. Flecks of blood, teeth, and skull struck her just afore the fellow twisted sideways, flew and scraped against the ground, and then landed in a heap. Minsc was right on top of him in an instant, sword raised up underhanded, stabbing down to skewer the man to the earth.

Imoen blinked. Warm blood dripped down her cheek and tickled her chin. She blinked again.

Then something whistled and came streaking in from the dark, breaking her stupor, and she twisted to the side on pure reflex. Her sleeve ripped, and the arrow went on by. _Wow. Did I just dodge that?_ Got to love that limbering enchantment!

Minsc got in front of her, facing the dark and looking keen on blocking any further shots. He scanned the tree line, then he went charging off, going after the enemy archer.

Twisting around, Imoen caught sight of the rock where she'd left her quiver, then ran and dove for it, sheathing her sword and snatching up three arrows. She obviously wasn't a swordswoman anyways ( _yowch!_ Her wrist sure stung like all nine of the Hells, and a tenth besides!) Putting one arrow to the string, she crouched and surveyed the camp.

Viconia's dark shape was hunched behind one of the tents, curled into a ball and holding onto the shaft of an arrow that appeared to be stuck in her belly. _Not good._ Elsewhere, there were flashes of light in the trees, maybe from Baeloth's spells, and somewhere in the shadows she heard steel ringing and Kirian shouting a string of insults and curses.

Minsc's big form was out in the brush now, trading blows with someone who was wielding a spear. There was a third figure some paces behind him too, leaning against the bole of a tree and holding out a longbow, keen on shooting the big guy in the back pointblank.

Afore he could do that, though, Imoen raised her own bow and shot first. The arrow struck the tree trunk, close to the figure's face, and it skittered back in shock.

With the next nocked arrow Imoen whispered a _truestrike_ spell and let loose again, quick as she could and square into the archer's chest. The archer crumpled.

Lots of nearby commotion drew her eye next, and she whirled to find that Kirian and the man who'd tried his luck at hostage-taking were stumbling into the light; grappling and tussling. The stranger's sword had dropped to the dirt, but he'd managed to catch Kiran by the wrist and keep her blade at bay for the moment.

He looked a solid and burly sort, but Kirian had the lead and momentum, her teeth bared as she spun the pair of 'em 'round and 'round, no doubt all bolstered-up by one of her strengthening spells. While they did their dance Imoen approached, switching out her bow for her blade. If the stranger held still long enough she could probably get a stab in-

_Oh._ Or not. This fellow wasn't _exactly_ a stranger, Imoen realized, now that she had a good look at him. He'd Turmic features, a broad face, a cocoa-brown complexion, a beard that was trimmed down thin as a pencil mark, and long, braided hair. This here _had_ to be Valygar Corthala himself! Looked exactly like the sketch the cowled fellow had shown them and everything.

Imoen sheathed her sword and fanned her fingers out instead, calling up a stunning spell. Alive! They were taking this fellow alive!

Meantime, Valygar'd been pushed back a bit, skidding in the dirt and bracing his feet. His eyes got wide. Then blank. Then a white light welled up inside 'em, spreading across his face and body. It flashed out and everywhere.

At about the same time Imoen channeled through with her spell, aiming to spray a blast of her own lights into her quarry's eyes, but instead they just broke up into a fuzzy cloud of nothing. Kirian's sword arm wobbled in Valygar's grip about then, and she yelped in pain and dropped her weapon: "Yowch! No fair!"

A shove sent her back a few steps, and Valygar stumbled as well. He was winded and wheezy. Kirian wasn't though; she recovered first and leapt the distance between them, fist flying and cracking Valygar in the nose. That sent him reeling back, and Kirian almost toppled him with a trip-kick, but he stumbled over her foot, backtracking to buy more time.

He couldn't avoid Kirian's fists though. She kept at it; furious blows striking his warding arms as they moved. "Think I need…" _Smack._ "…a _strength_ spell…" _Smack._ "…to kick your sorry ass?! Huh!?" _Smack._ "Huh?!"

The fight brought them over to the sprawled body of the man Minsc'd killed, and Valygar didn't see it, stumbling right over the corpse's legs and falling down on his backside. He started scrambling back and readying to push on up, but then he seemed to notice what he'd tripped over.

He froze. Tensed. Blinked.

Meantime Kirian loomed in and used a cantrip to draw her sword off the ground and back into her hand. In an instant it was pointing at Valygar's throat. He didn't seem to notice for a moment, instead just staring at the leafy armor of the fellow he was sprawled over. Eventually he raised his hands. "I surrender."

"Damn right you do," Kirian snapped, keeping up the pressure with her sword.

Valygar showed no fear. Tilting his head back, he raised his voice, shouting at the trees all around. "Hear that?! I surrender!" He repeated even louder. "I surrender!"

"Don't you dare, Valygar!" a woman's voice replied, off somewhere in the swishing brush. "Don't you dare!"

"It's done Merella! Everyone…everyone just stop!"

"Right!" Imoen added. "Stop fighting! Minc! That means you!" There was still a lot of rustling out in the darkness, and she heard some scratching steel. "Minc! Get your berserker butt over here! Right! This! Instant!"

The bushes rattled even more, then the big guy came bursting through, dodging past a tree to sprint for Imeon's position, his arms pumping and his sword in hand. "My witch!" he panted, eyes flitting about. "What threat has-?" He caught sight of Valygar and his hackles rose. "The villain!" A stomp in that direction.

Kirian interposed herself between Minsc and her prisoner. "Off! Back off you idiot! Don't damage the merchandise!"

"Yeah!" Imoen leapt between them too, facing Minsc with her arms raised and what she hoped was an imploring look in her eyes. "Minsc. Stop!" He shuffled right up to her, but he didn't push by. The look on his face went from furious to befuddled. "Just calm down. Alright?"

Past the big guy, a woman was easing her way into the clearing, a sturdy oaken spear braced in her hands and a longbow hanging off her shoulder. She was clad in a chainmail shirt that was buttressed with leathers, her face weather-beaten and her graying hair bound up a frayed bun. Dirt smudged her cheeks, and there were quite a few rips in her armor. "You're really going to let them take you, Valygar?" she demanded, her voice carrying easily across the clearing. Seemed the type used to commanding folks.

"More blood will be spilled, if I do not go," Valygar gritted out. "Possibly yours. I won't have that on my conscience. I'm sorry, Merella." He looked to the sword that was pointing at his throat. "I had to face the thing in the sphere eventually. Suppose I'll be doing it on the Cowled One's terms."

"Bah." The woman with the spear turned her head and spat. "Wanted to help you with that."

"The Cowled Wizards want this man for murder," Imoen piped up, trying and failing to put some conviction into her voice. "Said he killed two of their own."

The woman with the spear snorted. "Murder, huh?" She gave the body of the man with the smashed-in face a very pointed look. "Suppose the Cowled Ones won't be denied, as usual. May whatever's lurking in the sphere eat them all." She turned her glare on Imoen. "Go on then. I won't try to shoot you people in the back as you leave, so long as you leave _fast_. Don't disturb Derrick or Acard's bodies, either. And you're not welcome back here in Imnesvale. Ever." With that she backed away and melted into the brush in the space of a breath.

Left quite a few questions hanging in the air, too. Sphere? Were they talking 'bout that weird disturbance in the heart of Athkatla's slums? The big metal ball that folk say fell down and smashed half a block? And what was this talk about awakening a monster? Seemed Valygar could maybe shed some light on all this if…if he was even willing to talk to the villains who'd just killed his friends and taken him prisoner. _Ugh._

First things first, though. Imoen glanced about and took stock of the other folk in the clearing. At some point Viconia had managed to dislodge the arrow she'd been stuck with and lay some healing magic down on the wound. She was up on her feet, though obviously not comfortable or happy about it. Baeloth stood over by the campfire, warming his hands and looking casual as you please, not a scratch on him.

"Guess we'd best be going, then," Imoen said.

"Yeah," Kirian agreed, already fiddling with some rope to bind their new prisoner with. She snorted. "Great. Guess we're marching all night through the woods, then?"

Baeloth let out a bitter chuckle and shook his head. "Oh, _absolutely_ not." He turned from the fire and faced his companions. "No way! I am _not_ spending another night listening to your snores, or another day wearing my feet down to bloody stumps on the road! In fact, I am _not_ spending another day…another hour…nay, another _second_ slogging across the hills and dales with you nattering nitwits for company!"

"Uh, well if you really want-" Imoen started, but Baeloth wasn't done.

"It is all too much to bear!" A dramatic sigh. "So, much as it pains me, it appears that this is the time for me to pry open my coffers, blow out the dust, and spend a precious commodity." With a flourish he reached into his shirt and whipped out a rolled-up scroll, then broke the seal. "Come, my companions. Gather your vaunted valuables (such as they are). I will be generous and give you all…oh, let's say five minutes. Then we are teleporting back to Athkatla."

_Oh_. That actually sounded like a _really_ good idea. Even if Baeloth had to be an absolute asshole about it.

* * *

In a lurch and a blink they skipped over the hundred miles of road and country between the Umar Hills and the mouth of the Alandor River, bypassing Imnescar (with its titanic oak tree), Purskul (and its streets full of half-orc laborers), Crimmor (with its endless flow of caravans and barges), and all the sights and stops between. It was almost disappointing (Imoen had rather liked Crimmor, and intended to explore the city more sometime), but it was probably for the best, what with the dangerous prisoner they were hauling and all.

They appeared in a dark and narrow alleyway, where Minsc promptly leaned against a wall and bent his head, swaying and looking like he might retch at any moment. Kirian seemed a bit queasy too, but put on a brave face. Their prisoner was unaffected by the sudden jump, upright and stony, and Baeloth just dusted his hands off, brushing away the dust of the burnt-up scroll.

( _A scroll_. Imoen made a mental note of that. Edwin had used _teleportation_ spells pretty casually, and Baeloth claimed to be the same sort of powerful spellcaster as the red wizard, but apparently teleporting was beyond him, at least without outside assistance. The drow was always cagey about showing exactly what sort of magic he could or couldn't do, and that made Imoen determined to figure out his limits. She'd a theory that he was mostly bluff and bluster. Hard to tell though. Hard to tell).

"So," Imoen said aloud, "where've you dropped us, exactly?"

Baeloth pointed to the mouth of the alleyway. "Jann Lane. That's where the man in the mushroom hood requested we make our delivery, no?" He started forward. "So let's get to it, and collect our prize! I'm eager to see what I'm allowed to do with a so-called 'magic license.'"

They got moving, their prisoner now bound by ropes and bereft of all his hidden weapons, Minsc gripping his arm and hauling him along. "This is a mistake," Valygar grumbled as he was guided.

"Sorry," Imoen said, slipping in beside him. "We kinda got forced into this, believe it or not. Nothing personal. Just got in a bit of trouble with the Cowlies, and they demanded a favor."

"It may not be personal, but it will be on your conscience if the creature inside the sphere is- _Mrghph!_ "

Kirian had gotten in behind the prisoner and slipped a gag between his lips, and now she was winding and tying it.

"Thank you!" Viconia hissed, whirling on Imoen. The poke she gave was downright violent. "Do not _apologize_ to the meat." She grasped Valygar's other arm, helping Minsc to frog-march him out and onto the wider street.

Seemed the priestess was in a sour mood, and you could hardly blame her. While Imoen had been prancing around and playing on the battlefield (trying not to get skewered on a sword), Viconia had been busy shoving the arrow she'd taken the rest of the way through her belly, fighting not to pass out in the process, then focusing as much healing magic as she could bring to bear on the wound. Shar's power had come through and saved her, but that's the sort of ordeal that'll drain you.

Following along, Imoen shook her head and had herself a bitter, quiet little chuckle. For some dumb reason, Valygar had declared her the 'leader' of this shabby band of mercenaries. Sure didn't feel that way to her. The majority had spoken, made its will known, and all she could do was hurry to keep up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long hiatus between chapters here was just due to me trying to write a big buffer of first draft material before going back to publish this. So, I'm still working on this fic, if anyone was curious.
> 
> Also, I'm changing/expanding Valygar quite a bit here. The in-game lore makes a big deal about how magic runs in his bloodline (it's even mentioned that dabbling in sorcery led to the death of his mother), and I decided to lean into that and alter his class/abilities a bit. My thinking is that the Corthalas are *such* potentially powerful sorcerers that they all manifest at least some degree of magical power, without a lot of choice in the matter, a bit like a mutant from X-Men.
> 
> So, because of Valygar's general attitude, he's channeled all of his potential sorcerous power into minor anti-magic and dispelling effects, making him a bit like the Mage Hunter kit from the game, in addition to being a stealthy ranger-type. That seems to fit his character, at least. Maybe, in game terms he's a ranger with a couple levels of some kind of anti-magic prestige class. I haven't stated it out or anything, but eh, that's the general idea.


	9. We're Here to Help

_"What's the most dangerous animal I've encountered? Well, if we're talking non-magical critters, it was probably this bull caribou up by Ten Towns, right in the middle of the mating season. Predators might be deadly, but you can at least count on them to act rationally."_ – Aoln of Baldur's Gate, _Pathfinding: A Memoire_

* * *

Mirtul 30, 1369 D.R.

Ashura emerged from the portal and stumbled a few steps, her stomach flipping and her eyes blinking at the sudden change in light. It was more than a bit disorienting, crossing a hundred or so miles with a single step. Her boots crunched leaves as she lurched further ahead, then she steadied herself and turned around. The quicksilver-surface of the gate shimmered and churned.

It was high noon, and bright sunlight filtered down on the clearing (and her head) through a gap in the canopy above. The archway of the portal, and the path leading from it, seemed to be the only signs of civilization here; all else was moss, dead leaves, and old growth trees.

Edwin was the next to emerge, arms clasped at his chest and striding just as cool and casual as he would down a city street. He noted his surroundings and turned up his nose.

Durlyle appeared next, dropped onto his hands and knees, and promptly started puking onto the leaves. His sister arrived a moment later and did the exact same thing.

"Pretty amazing, idn't it?" the most recent addition to their party said, surveying her surroundings while the twins finished coughing up their morningfeast. Her name was Itona; their guide for this mission. Their minder too. "Traveling all that way in the space of a blink? 'Specially nice to skip over the damned climb through the mountains. They call the fuckers the ' _Small Teeth_ ,' but let me tell ya, there's nothin' small about 'em."

The Shadow Thief representative looked like your average Amnian woman, with an olive complexion, bushy eyebrows, and brown, curly hair that came spilling out from under her hat. She'd was dressed in black and white riding clothes, with a rapier on her hip. "That's one o' the perks o' getting in good with us," she added. "These little jaunts. We can show you some nice backdoors, and tell you 'bout some o' the portal keys. If you work for us, that is. Bit 'o a carrot to go along with the stick."

"That stick being…" Edwin prompted.

"The stick being the thing old Renal'll mount your halfling-friend's head on, if you cross us." Itona raised an open hand. "That's just a fair warning, mind. Renal's fond o' making bloody examples. They don't call him _Bloodscalp_ 'cause he's prone to bumping his head, after all. But the gory way is his, not mine. I'll play ya fair."

"( _Play_ being the operative word)," Edwin grumbled under his breath.

"All duly noted," Ashura said. "Where are we going?"

Itona pointed. "Down this trail." She took the lead.

_'Itona will be your guide,'_ they'd been told outside the guildhall, by the obnoxious fellow from the Shadow Thieves. _'Should she come to harm, the life of your halfling will be forfeit. Assist her, and all will be well.'_

"We want to have good working relations with you 'venturers," Itona went on as they began the hike. "You're the lot what solved the Iron Crisis, after all. Least that's how the book your bard-friend wrote tells it. And that's why Renal figured you might be able to solve our crisis here."

"What," Edwin asked, "is the crisis, then? We are owed some details."

"Sure thing." The path ahead meandered through the forest, and it seemed that the trees thinned out ahead. "This here is the northern reach of the Wealdath. We're just a league or so off the Tradeway, then a half-league's walk to the spot where it crosses with the road to Murann. My hometown's built on that crossroads: a fine little burg by the name o' Trademeet. As ya might guess by the name, it's the sort of place where trade's supposed to flow through all regular. Trouble is, very little's trickling up to the north at the moment. Seems the caravans are getting attacked, and it's just been raggedy survivors rolling into Trademeet the past few weeks, with no goods on hand."

"So we're hunting bandits?" Ashura asked.

"Bit less conventional than that. The survivors from the caravans claim they were attacked by regular forest critters. Bears and wolves and the like."

Durlyle sniffed the air. "There are no wolves about."

"Huh? Well, that's good, I guess. Pretty obvious that wolves aren't the problem, though. Something's controlling the animals." Past a bend in the trail, the old oaks and shadowed forest floor gave way to brush and new growth.

"And we are expected to fix this…pest problem?" Edwin muttered. "How exactly?"

"Brute force, of course. You folks have a bit of a reputation for that. Wrecked the whole Flaming Fist compound back in Baldur's Gate, didn't ya?"

"There were more than four of us there," Ashura admitted. "But…yeah. Basically."

"Well, whatever's driving the animals wild will likely be a smaller matter." Slowing, Itona turned, smiling at her followers. "Might just be a rogue dryad, or some druids stirring up trouble. Soon as we reach Trademeet, we'll settle in at my place, get our bearings, and make some discrete inquiries. Now, when we get to town we'll need to be a bit sneaky, mind, since I'm not exactly-"

Behind her, the brush exploded, leaves fluttering before outstretched claws.

Itona hardly had time to turn her head before the creature struck her back, alighting there and biting down. She let out a scream of terror and pain, then fell on her face, crushed beneath a man-sized, dapple-coated cat. Flecks of blood spattered the leaves. Predator and prey rolled and thrashed, screams mingling with snarls.

Edwin had hopped backwards, and Ashura rushed straight on, her longsword whistling free. Her eyes met Itona's. They were wide and wet. Panicked.

_'…the life of your halfling will be forfeit.'_

Three steps and she was in range. The cat looked up at her. She stabbed for its face but it dipped aside, rolling off Itona to spring and swipe with its claws. Ashura skittered to the side and chopped down. Her blade bit into the extended foreleg.

The blow elicited an earsplitting "ROWL!" and the cat became a raging blur. Something struck Ashura's ribs and she stumbled back. Wet, red fangs flashed close to her face. She twisted away and swung her offhand blade, feeling a warm splash against her fingers.

The cat (some sort of leopard) fell to the dirt and rolled away, thrashing, then it flipped and was on its feet again, blood pouring down its coat. Ashura backed a step and kept her longsword interposed, and the cat followed her, its movements wobbly and drunk. It tensed, getting ready to spring…

…then something bulky and brown swept in, landing on the animal's back and splaying its limbs out. A werewolf. It reeled up, howled, and then dove down to bite into the back of the cat's neck. The pained, high keen that followed was ear-splitting.

There were other noises too, all around: lots of squawks and screeching. Black feathers flew, shed by the wings of crows that were pecking at a second werewolf.

Ashura started turning that way, then a snort stole her attention. Very close. She whirled and found that sharp, curled antlers were leveled at her chest.

A hart. A big one. It charged.

_The Hells?_ She flung herself aside, arms raised as the antlers whistled by. _Nearly skewered by a murderous deer_. That would have been embarrassing.

The hart spun around, skipping and snorting. It tried to slash with its antlers. Ashura's offhand blade snagged between the spikes, twisting the creature's head. It pressed her, kicking up dirt, she pushed back, and then she managed to find a good angle and chop down with her longsword. The blade bit into the deer's neck, and it crumpled.

_There._ She stumbled back.

The squawking sounds swept in, a little cloud of crows and pigeon's seeking her out. Wings buffeted her face, then Varscona came slicing through the air, swatting away one bird, then another, and another. A chop took a wing clean off. A pigeon got right in her face, then got impaled on her offhand sword. Beyond the storm of feathers, she could see larger forms rushing about. Wolves, maybe.

Then a new figure, bigger than all the others, landed on the path and reared up, a howl rising in its throat. It stood upright, stretching out muscular arms and curled claws: a massive werewolf, its fur dark and streaked here and there with gray.

A werewolf, but _not_ one of hers. That wasn't good.

Ashura stepped back and pointed her blades at the newcomer, but the creature didn't attack. Instead it tilted further back and let out one of the longest, sustained howls that Ashura had ever heard (and she'd heard quite a few, as of late), drawing the full attention of every creature in the clearing.

The other wolves, a second hunting cat, and several rodents all stopped and stared. Woodchucks and squirrels stood on their hind legs, as if at attention, and the birds slowed their beating. Durlyle and Delainy had a similar reaction, just leaning low and watching the newcomer for now. Their muzzles were soaked with blood.

The keening cry ended, a hush fell over the forest, and then, a few at a time, the animals that had been in a frenzy just a moment ago turned and began to slink back into the brush.

Arms slackening, the strange new werewolf leaned in and looked about, watching the crowd disperse. This creature was a bit larger than either of the twins, though nowhere near the bulk of their old pack-leader, Mendas. Strands of its fur were braided, too, with hawk feathers strung into the locks, and it wore several bands of bone about its neck, some sort of bandoleer, and a belted strip of hide that covered its loins.

As the animals disappeared into the brush, one of the twins let out a low growl at the stranger, but it did not reply in kind. Instead, the great wolf faced the smaller ones and bowed its head, tension leaving its body. It shrunk then, fur receding and transforming into a green cloak of woven leaves, along with olive skin, and long, dark hair. The wolf became a man, his posture straight and his face serene.

"You are not belonging," one of the twins snarled, taking a step closer. The other one sniffed the air.

This man was not particularly tall, though he stood firm. "I belong in this forest as well as you," he replied. "I belong to the earth beneath my feet, and the winds that carry our words. I serve those things, and go where I might best belong, in whatever form is most appropriate." He smiled, faintly. "Though, I suppose I do not belong to your…kind. Your pack. I was only borrowing the form."

"A werewolf is a provocative form to take," Edwin noted. He was hovering over Itona, aglow with protective magic.

The stranger gestured about. "In this place, where so many creatures were contesting, I judged that the most ferocious form would give every other beast pause, and help to end the conflict. Was I wrong?"

"We won't attack you," Ashura said. "If that's what you mean." She edged her way over to Itona's prone form. There was a _lot_ of blood on the leaves. Kneeling, she pressed her hands against the worst of the gashes, one at the woman's side and the other on her upper back. Itona's eyes were distant and twitchy. "Stay alive, idiot." Ashura looked up. "Can we get some healing over here?"

Delainy was beside her in an instant, back in human form and bending down to chant. Itona's reaction, when the healing glow touched her, was a violent shake, drool flecking from the side of her mouth and eyes rolling back.

"Careful," the stranger said, kneeling down as well. "You may worry the wounds. Great cats aim for the spine, to cripple their prey, and it appears this one was…somewhat successful."

"That's not good," Ashura grumbled.

The stranger shook his head, both hands clasped together before him. "I can attempt a healing, to smooth and weave the bone and nerve. It will be taxing, but I will perform the ritual if you stand back and allow it."

Edwin huffed. "You came with the animals. How are we to know this is not some trick?"

"Know be by my actions."

"I will disintegrate you if your actions displease me. We need this woman alive."

"Well, I'm grateful for the help," Ashura muttered. "Do it."

Nodding, the stranger launched into a chant, his hands descending to press at the nape of Itona's neck and the center of her back. A blue glow welled up between them, growing and flowing along the course of Itona's arteries and veins. By the time the light subsided, the woman's breaths seemed to have evened out, and her eyes had shut.

"There should be no harm in moving her, now," the stranger said, rising. He found a nearby sapling with large leaves, and started wiping the blood from his hands.

They used a tent canvas and a pair of poles to make an impromptu stretcher, then rolled Itona onto it. Ashura took the front, Durlyle took the back, and together they lifted the unconscious woman up. "Guess we're heading to Trademeet quick as we can," Ashura said. Distributed like this, the burden wasn't too heavy.

"I would accompany you, if that is permissible," the stranger offered. "I am known as Cernd, by the way. A druid of the High Forest."

"I'm Ashura." She started walking, eyes sweeping the wood before her. No telling when more brush might burst open. "You're a long way from home."

"Not so long, as the crow might fly. I was sent here to investigate the…disarray in the region."

"As were we."

"Convenient," Edwin muttered.

"I was searching these woods, for signs of what might have disturbed the wildlife, and found you in the center of an _impressively_ large disturbance."

Delainy spoke up. "This feels much as…as protected ground. As as if pact has being made. To be warding off intruders." She walked along with her staff in hand and her pack under her arm, dressed only in her belted waist-cloth for now. Both twins seemed ready to transform back at a moment's notice, half-naked, twitchy, and watching the woods with wary eyes (and noses, no doubt).

Seemed they'd just picked up another scantily-clad savage, too. Cernd had _slightly_ more clothing (that cloak of bright green leaves, and the necklaces and bandoleer), but he also went barefoot. "Pacts made with beasts and spirits?" he asked Delainy. "You know of such things?"

"Certainly. On my island-home I spoke with sharks. There was making of offerings. For safety of swimmers, and so sharks were protecting us from other pack in water."

"I do not understand. A…pack? In-"

Ashura cut in: "She charmed the sharks so they'd attack invaders from the rival tribe, if they came at her village by sea."

"No charm," Delainy insisted. "Was pact. Fair one."

Cernd inclined his head. "I see. I sense that you are well-attuned to the ebb and flow of nature. You guided your tribe, then?"

Frowning, Delainy looked off. "Was elder shaman who was making pacts. I was only charged with renewing. That, and simple prayers for crops and rain, while my brother was taught healing and stories. Still young, when Ludil was took from us."

"You were pups left to survive before every hunting trick was imparted to you, then? A common occurrence. Yet instinct often carries the pups the rest of the way, as it has with you, and the world itself is the greatest teacher."

Delainy didn't have a response to that. She just continued to watch the trees, eyes on the branches that loomed above the path.

"Oh yes," Edwin groaned. "Lots of lessons to be learned from berserk squirrels trying to nibble us to death."

"Indeed there are. Though you should be glad that the beasts around us are now calmed."

"What beasts?" Edwin snapped.

"Exactly." Cernd had a hint of a smile on his face. "You do not see them."

"Oh please! That is the oldest trick of the charlatan-priest. 'I have warded off the evil spirits. You can tell because they are not attacking us. Now pay me for the service.'"

Cernd ignored him, speaking to the twins. "You two sense them, don't you? You can feel the eyes watching us from beneath the leaves, the shadowed branches, and the hollows of the trees? The animals are tense and conflicted; pressed upon by outside pressures. And sensing them bristle makes you bristle as well."

"Yes." Delainy admited. "It does."

Durlyle's head turned one way, then the other. "I smell many out there. Yes."

There was nothing but foliage, far as Ashura could see. Made her miss the sharpened senses she'd experienced back on the island the twins were from. Of course, back there, she had only been able to smell the forest and all the creatures in it when she'd taken the form of a raging beast.

"Many," Delainy repeated. "They are-" She seemed to realize something. "Oh! You sooth them, as we go!"

"That is how I traveled this far through the woods," Cernd said. "Without being 'nibbled to death,' as your friend put it."

"They sprang on us, and I could not-"

"You certainly _can_ soothe them, though. Just as you did with the sharks and the winds of the home you spoke of. Your shaman taught you, correct? To still yourself, and reach out to the life that scurries and blooms around you?"

There was silence for a time, and when Ashura glanced over she saw that Delainy had shut her eyes. A few steps farther, and Durlyle began to sing, his voice a low vibration in his throat, seemingly more melody than words. Edwin grumbled (like always), and the twins ignored him (like always).

Perhaps a minute or so went by, and then Delainy opened her eyes and looked over to Cernd, voice low so as not to interrupt her brother's song. "We can feel them, yes. And make them calm. The squirrels return to their searching of food. The wolves walk away. I thank you, for the showing."

Cernd exhaled; a long, deep breath. "No. No. Thank you. I was growing weary of holding it all back on my own. Whatever spell has been placed over this forest, it is strong."

They trudged on. Ashura had been keeping an eye out, but try as she might she never saw a sign of any lurking animals, ensorcelled or otherwise. Just looked like a lot of deep shadows, broad fronds, verdant brush, and thick, green leaves. Nothing stirred. Maybe that was good enough.

* * *

The woods soon thinned completely, parting to spill the travelers out into bright and open fields. Wild flowers and grasses swayed before them, and the trail soon ended, merging onto a paved highway. Looked a lot like the roads that Ashura had grown familiar with when she'd walked up and down the coast: raised, smooth, and built by one empire or another to endure through the ages. Would have been the Shoon Imperium that built this stretch, she figured, back when they ruled these lands.

"The Tradeway," Edwin named it. "Good. We are leaving these wilds behind."

Cernd chuckled. "We have been walking man-made trails all this time. Hardly the wilds one might-"

"Wild enough!"

The highway was nearly arrow-straight, out here on the open ground, only taking the most reluctant of bends here and there to skirt rocky outcroppings or steep, tree-clad hills. They marched on as before, and after perhaps a half-hour's walk they found themselves rounding one such curve and sighting a flat, walled settlement, down on the open plain.

"Guess that's Trademeet," Ashura said, leading the way and lugging the front-half of the stretcher. Itona wasn't terribly heavy, and they'd taken a few breaks for her and Durlyle to wipe their sweaty hands and readjust. Still, she looked forward to setting the burden down for good, somewhere safe.

As they drew closer to the walls, a thought occurred to her, and she looked over. "Uh. Delainy?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to put your dress back on now." Would draw some undue attention walking into a city like _that._ She looked back to Durlyle. "And you might as well put on your Amnish getup, too. We'll stop a moment."

Delainy nodded, reaching into her satchel. "Yes. If you believe we will not be attacked again."

"Shouldn't be. This is civilization, after all." Took just a moment's pause for the outer clothes to go on and for the werewolves to get presentable, then they were on their way again.

Trademeet's outer wall was more ornate than solid, the lower half built of interlocking stones and the upper portion a latticework of wooden fencing, topped with spear-tip spikes. All told it couldn't have been more than eleven feet tall. There were guard towers at either side of the gate, built from stone and topped with wooden crow's nests of a basketwork design. Those nests were manned at the moment, archers watching the travelers as they approached.

Between Ashura and the town gates lay a killing ground, the road and pasture littered with all manner of dead animals. Dogs, great cats, deer, bison, hawks, wolves, massive snakes, and even the curled remains of spiders were scattered about, all in various states of decay. The fresher corpses bristled with arrows, and the older ones were distended and stiff. The stench that hung over the whole of the place was eye-watering.

Stopping up her nose as best she could, Ashura pushed on. There were about ten guards huddled right by the gates, and as she neared them one guardswoman, who was dressed in heavier armor than the rest, stepped forward and raised a hand. "Halt," she called. "What's your business here?" There wasn't much fire in the command. She looked exhausted.

"Indignity after indignity," Edwin grumbled, his voice a bit muffled on account of the sleeve he'd pressed to his face. "Can't you save it until _after_ we are upwind of this place?"

"Our purpose is pretty self-evident, isn't it?" Ashura added. "Got an injured woman here."

"Looks so. You what's left of a caravan? Figured they'd stop trying the road by now."

"We're travelers."

"Oh? Made it all the way up from Tethyr with just one of you getting mauled?"

"Don't really have time to give you our life's story here. We were sent to help. With your caravan problem. We're mercenaries."

"Mercenaries huh? Who hired you?"

_Bloody Hells-_

"A powerful house in Athkatla," Edwin filled in. "That is the city from which we hail. _Yes_ , we were traveling from the south, and Athkatla is to the north. I know. We took a magical shortcut. A trivial matter. And _no_ , we are not going to identify our employers, as they wish to remain anonymous. All you need know is that they wish to free up the trade routes in this region, which is why they sent us here to deal with your…issue with wild beasts. We dealt with _swathes_ of them, by the way, to reach your gates, and we are prepared to butcher many more. Will you reject such aid?"

"Huh." The guardswoman rubbed her face. "Well, if you're here to help…" A shrug. "It's still standard policy to admit all travelers, here in the City of the Merchant's Peace. Enjoy the marketplace. Such as it is. And I guess you'll be looking for the High Merchant, if you really want to make yourselves useful."

Ashura nodded, starting forward. "Where's he?"

"Big fortress over on the west side, halfway in and halfway out the city walls. It's called Kapparthall."

"We'll go looking. You're getting swarmed by animals?"

" _Oh_ yeah." The guard captain rubbed the back of her neck. "Hip deep in 'em. You probably noticed that some of these corpses are weeks old. And what you see is just what's been left in the fields. People swoop in to get the bears right quick."

"Weeks?" Edwin asked, as he passed by. "When did this start?"

"Near twenty days ago, right after the crazy girl gave her big speech in front of the gates. The waves of beasts came right after…" Her voice trailed off as Cernd walked closer, and she gave the druid a serious look. "Speaking of the crazy girl...and how all this started. You. You're some priest of Silvanus, aren't you? You look it."

"I am a servant of nature," Cernd stated.

"Well that's just great. You really don't want to walk around here dressed like that. It's druids that attacked this town."

"I feared as much." Cernd looked over his shoulder, across the field of corpses. He took a deep breath. "This is a blasphemy. A tragedy. To use the inhabitants of a forest in the manner a human or elven emperor might; like vassal farmers, their lives and destinies interrupted by a call to war." Shaking his head, he turned to the captain. "You spoke of a 'crazy girl.' A female druid leads them?"

"Yeah. Very young and very fierce. She gave this big rant outside the walls about violations of in Forest of Tethyr. Next thing we know, swarms of critters were bashing the walls and wrecking the Tradeway."

"It is my sacred duty to stop this woman."

"Good on you, then. Me? I've got nothing but respect for your circles. Was a priest of the Leaf Lord what cured my sister's pin-cough back in the day, and my uncle too. Used an invocation and some bitter tea. Then, when my second birth got rough, a priestess of Chauntea saw me and my little boy through. Just be warned. Some folk here might not be as familiar with druids as I am."

"Thank you."

They passed the rest of the way through the gate, and as they walked away the guard captain added: "Tempus' blessing upon you. Give the lunatics responsible for this a holy death, if you get the chance."

As with the gates, Trademeet's streets were ornate and elegant. Tile mosaics covered the inner courtyard and the streets beyond, and the façade of every house in sight was made of finished and painted wood, carved into delicate patterns. Ashura had only read of elven architecture in books, but she guessed there was a bit of an influence here.

The only people in the streets were human, though. Not many out, and those that were gave the procession curious looks. There were lots of cocked heads and meaningful whispers.

After a few steps, Ashura slowed. "So we're looking for a temple-"

"They worship Waukeen here," Edwin stated. "She is the goddess of money. Look for the most opulent edifice."

Sound advice. The temple stood out, even among all the spires and elaborate woodwork. "Thanks." They started for it.

* * *

"Over here." The priest beckoned them, hastening across a wide stretch of mosaic tiles, then under the shadow of a massive statue that encompassed much of the temple. It was about fifteen feet in height, the smooth marble of its 'skin' and inner vestments contrasting with the bronze of its cloak and bladed headdress, posed with its arms aloft, hands cradling a golden sphere that helped to illuminate the chamber.

A statue of Waukeen. At least, Ashura assumed it was, this being Waukeen's temple and all. Not like she was one to keep up with every guise a god might take.

They went on up some steps, through a curtain, down a hall, and then into tighter, cozier chambers. Not to say that these weren't ostentatious too; much of the paneling was carved from cherrywood, the walls were lined with colorful tapestries, and every container was made of painted porcelain, bronze, or brass. No paltry wicker or pine in sight.

Through the next doorway lay the infirmary, and it was, without a doubt, the prettiest sick room Ashura had ever seen. The cots were spotless, the partitions were soft and silken, and gleaming white tiles lined the floors and walls.

The priest led them to one of those cots, where they eased Itona down with the assistance of a pair of acolytes. As soon as the patient was in their care, one of the acolytes stared fussing over the woman's wounds, while the other shooed Ashura and Durlyle out, closing the curtains behind them.

"Maulings have been dreadfully common, as of late," the senior priest noted, his eyes sweeping over the other beds. There were at least six folks convalescing here, all bundled up and asleep. "Merchants and guards mostly, who dared the road, but anyone who wanders past the walls is vulnerable."

Ashura opened her mouth, trying to think of the best way to ask about the curse the town seemed to be under, but the priest cut her off with a noise and an outstretched hand. "A nominal fee is expected, of course. For the care of your friend."

"Of course," Edwin drawled. "We wouldn't want people mistaking this for a charity."

The priest's eyes narrowed. "We're no martyrs of Ilmater, certainly."

"Whatever," Ashura grunted. "How much?"

A mercantile back-and-forth followed, the priest immediately pulling some bullshit about the price depending on the client's ability to pay, then getting all insulted and huffy when Ashura named an amount he didn't like. He went on to vacillate between complaining about the extent of Itona's wounds, bragging on the healing powers of his order, and whining over the shortness of supplies, due to the troubles, all while Ashura kept coming up with sums that didn't seem to impress him. Edwin's snide and constant interjections probably didn't help, either.

At one point Ashura pointed her thumb at the curtain and snapped: "Look! I don't even know this bitch. We're just trying to do the right thing here, but if we have to dump her in a gutter we will."

The priest didn't buy the bluff. Negotiations dragged on. _Eventually_ (thank the gods) a sum was settled on, and an obnoxiously large pile of gold changed hands.

"My thanks. May the blessing of the Merchant's Friend be upon you."

"Yeah." As soon as all the arrangements were made, Ashura turned and marched out towards the main hall. Once they'd walked out of earshot, she grumbled: "The only bloody priests around here worship the goddess of greed. If we aren't careful, this damned nation's going to suck every last coin out of us."

"Yes," Edwin agreed. "I _almost_ admire their gamesmanship when it comes to copper-pinching. It is tempting, though, to show them how magical prowess trumps the collection of baubles."

Ashura looked over, noting the sparkling bracelets, earrings, and circlet that the red wizard wore, along with his spotless robes. Even the ties that kept his mustache braided seemed to be made of gold. "You realize that you're a bit of a bauble collector yourself, right?"

"There is a difference. In addition to being pleasant to look upon, ever object _I_ wear has a practical purpose, imbued with the finest of enchantments."

Ashura raised an eyebrow. "All of them?" She was wondering what sort of enchantment you'd imbue a moustache-tie with.

Edwin took a different meaning, though. "You seemed _quite_ enchanted with a certain bauble, that night in that tiny village on the coast. You prattled on and on about how you had never encountered something that could-"

"Uh. Point taken." She looked straight ahead, and hoped the subject would change quickly, what with Durlyle walking right behind them and all.

Edwin probably would have said something more, but circumstance intervened. As they stepped into the grand hall and approached the double doors at the front of the temple, muffled shouting rang from the other side. Ashura and Durlyle picked up the pace, rushed the last few steps, and with a shove they were out in the sunlight.

A crowd had gathered in the square; nearly a score of people who'd formed a line in front of Cernd, brandishing all manner of weapons (axes, spears, swords, and bows) but keeping back for the moment. Delainy stood a bit farther away, inching towards the temple's walls and holding her staff up.

At a glance the crowd looked to be mostly men, and mostly dressed in studded jackets, along with a few footman's half-helms. Ashura recognized a face or two: folk who'd glared at them while they'd hauled Itona into the temple. Apparently, after the glaring, the angry people had gone and got their friends. They'd the look of mercenaries. Guards from those smashed-up caravans, Ashura guessed.

A bearded man had slipped out from the crowd and moved in, between Delainy and Cernd, pointing with his handax and bellowing at the girl. Everyone in the crowd seemed to be yelling.

"…saw the master torn apart by a bear…"

"…can't deny it! There were figures wearing leaf-cloaks just like yours! Directing the wolves…"

"…she's a wild one too!" That was the axman shouting. "Look at that staff! And those bushy eyebrows…"

"…we'll have our answers, even if we have to wring them out!"

The man who'd been menacing Delainy whirled, stepped in, and managed to blindside Cernd with a strike from the butt of his ax, dropping the druid to his knees. Everyone in the mob moved closer then, shouts rising in volume and impossible to discern.

Durlyle bolted in the direct of his sister, and Ashura pitched forward and sprinted too. Without thinking, she'd already pulled her short blade free, and in the space of two breaths she reached the axman. The pommel of her sword cracked the side of the man's jaw, turning him sharp and dropping him like a sack, then momentum carried her on by.

She nearly skidded into the crowd. A tangle of swords, limbs, and contorted faces loomed before her eyes. She realized then that she'd been screaming unintelligibly the whole time. She didn't stop.

A spear-point flashed close to her face. A swipe of her sword batted it aside, and her eyes swept the crowd. She hissed in a deep breath, reared back, and shouted:

"Back the HELLS off!"

They didn't. They shoved closer. It appeared that one crazy, screaming woman in chainmail wasn't enough to intimidate them. "Girl!" someone shouted back. "You'd best just-"

"I said _BACK OFF_!" Flames flashed across her vision, and _now_ they flinched, rolling back. The smell of melting slag filled her nose. She took a stomp forward, daring the bastards. "All of you!" Her eyes flitted from one face to the next, every one highlighted with furnace-fire. "Back!" Another step. "The Hells." And another. "Off!"

They stumbled. Some shrank away. Some quaked. One man's jaw went slack, eyes bulging like he was looking into the maw of the Abyss. He managed to shake himself, turn aside, and then he shoved his companions over and bolted away.

Other folk screamed and tumbled. Limbs and weapons got tangled. People crawled and crashed and scurried. A woman reared back with her spear, eyes glassy and maddened, then Ashura met her gaze and she froze, stumbled, dropped her weapon, and curled up to cover her face.

Yet there was one young man who managed to keep upright, standing his ground as the rest of the line broke. He'd a blank look on his face, staring as if entranced, then he seemed to notice Ashura advancing and his eyes went sharp, teeth clenching. With a snarl he hefted his ax and lunged.

A brave boy. Slow, though. Ashura ducked and slithered, whirling and then whipping Varscona out from its sheath to strike in retaliation. The blade bit into the ax-haft and splinters flew. She readied a follow-through, but reflex made her skip aside, out of the way of a stabbing spear-point. Someone else had found some courage and tried to blindside her.

A little side-stepping and she was away from the spear. The brave boy pressed in for another swing, but Ashura's crossguard caught his blade, then her boot caught his belly and knocked him on his ass. She stomped forward and swung, aiming to take his head off.

There was a flash then, and the brave boy bent and _flew_ backwards, nicked across the nose by her blade and then out of her reach. Limp and in shock, the fellow slid to the ground, then he was lifted up by a ghostly, luminescent vine, holding his midsection.

More vines were slithering up between the tiles of the square. One had tangled around a man with a spear, and another held a woman flat against the ground, a bow in one of her hands, an arrow in the other, and no chance of putting the two together. Every plant was translucent and aglow, and they seemed to appear and disappear through the tilework without actually disturbing it, tracing back to the spot where Cernd knelt.

"No further harm, please," the druid said, his voice even as he Ashura in the eye. "I am here to investigate. Not to further a cycle of blood." He looked past her. "Nor to awaken demons."

_Demons? Is he calling me a-?_

"It is a devil," Edwin huffed. "You idiot."

Sure enough, there was a devil loping along at Edwin's side: a hunched creature with a hide of leather, a mass of tangled beard, and a swishing tail. It was clutching a long, jagged glaive.

Oh. And there was a werewolf standing behind it. Seemed like more than enough to scare off the rest of the mob, and sure enough, they'd about disappeared.

"Torm help us!" a deep voice bellowed, and Ashura turned to discover that, while the mob had run off, a new crowd was entering the square. It was a column of people dressed in chainmail and carrying halberds. They stopped short of the devil, wizard, and werewolf, their weapons raised.

The militia captain from earlier stood at the front of the line, along with a man in plated armor and the colorful tabard of a knight. The others held back, but the knight marched closer, a massive sword between his hands and an open helmet on his head. There seemed to be a faint glow about him. "Keep back!" he shouted the rest of his soldiers. "Leave this creature to me!"

"Oh, please," Edwin groaned. "There is no matter of 'leaving' anything to anyone. This devil is under my complete control." To prove the point, he snapped his fingers, and the creature straightened, taking a step back and placing the glaive against its shoulder; a soldier at attention.

The knight continued to advance, though he raised an eyebrow. He looked to be the leader here, though he had a bit of a young, boyish cast to his clean-shaved face. As he neared, Ashura felt an acute, itchy pressure against her. Kind of had to fight to keep her ground, and it felt like a headache might be coming on soon.

"Admitting to being in control of a summoned devil," the knight said, "is _not_ going to help your case."

Edwin made a dismissive gesture. "Bah. It was summoned merely to scare off these simpletons (or tear them limb from limb if they dared to actually attack). It dealt with the situation adequately."

Sweeping in between the knight and the summoned creature, Cernd held out his hands. "And now that the crowd is dispersed," he cut in, "might we sheath our claws and lower our hackles? I…apologize. I seem to have inadvertently brought this violence to your town."

"Hm." The knight had stopped a few paces away, sizing everyone up. "It _is_ my town, certainly. And thus my mess to clean. My name is Lord Logan Coprith, by the by. And I appreciate the attempt at parlay. Very civil. You _are_ all under arrest, however. To be escorted back to Kapparthall, where we can sort this mess out in private." He gestured towards a broad, stony manor, looming just beyond the open square.

Ashura stood her ground a moment, doing some sizing-up of her own. There was just this knight, the militia captain, and her six haggard soldiers. One of the militia looked to be a mage, but he'd be no match for Edwin. Between her, Edwin, his devil, and the twins, they could probably take all of them easily. Would be a breeze, compared to the Flaming Fist compound.

Eventually she sheathed one sword, then the other, and spoke. "Edwin. Dismiss that thing. Durlyle. Go back to human form." She faced the knight. "We'll go with you. We're _keeping_ our weapons, though."

"That's not exactly what _arrest_ means."

"No. It's not." There was a hissing noise as Edwin's devil went back to whatever pit it'd crawled out of, and some crinkling as Cernd's vines withdrew. Ashura pointed over the knight's shoulder. "We're going to that building over there?"

"Yeah." They shared a glare, then the knight turned and started walking. Seemed he'd agreed to her terms. Ashura followed, maintaining a little distance. Behind them, the two parties sorted themselves out and fell in line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking at maps of the Forgotten Realms, it occurred to me that Trademeet is actually supposed to be *really* far away from Athkatla. In the game it's just a day's walk or so, but canonically it's a several-hundred mile trip that includes passing through a mountain range. I thought about shifting Cernd's quest to a different city in Amn, but settled on the Shadow Thieves using a portal network instead. Seemed like something they'd be able to do.
> 
> I also debated over making Cernd an *actual* werewolf. That could have led to some interesting interactions between him and the twins, but instead I opted to just make him a druid with Shapeshifter prestige class abilities.
> 
> Oh, and the quote at the top of his chapter is a variation on something Les Stroud once said, on his show Survivorman, about how a bull moose encountered during the mating season was the most dangerous animal he'd ever dealt with.


	10. Menagerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baeloth invents/anticipates reality television.

_"The three-hundred-and-thirty-third level of the Abyss was a madhouse. To adapt, I went insane too. As it turned out, that was the correct move."_ –Nina Whitesun, _Memoir of a Warbitch_

* * *

Mirtul 31, 1369 D.R.

The sphere sat there in its nest of splintered wood and shattered brickwork, looming and brooding. Looming and brooding, and that was it; there were no lights, no visitors, no signs of activity at all on the other side of _Copperpot_ _Street_. Nothing for the past two hours. _Sheesh._ Stakeouts sure were boring affairs.

Imoen took another sip from her battered tin cup. She was drinking a coffee-bean decoction, laden with generous amounts of Maztican sugar. Some of the others had broken out a bottle of Fire Wine to drink and pass the time, but she'd declined. Best to stay alert.

Scaffolding had been built out in front of the sphere, both to shore up the damaged buildings, and to position a platform out in front of the single doorway into the place. The door was a man-sized rectangle, about halfway up, that appeared to be sealed tight. There didn't seem to be any sort of opening mechanism.

This whole city block seemed vacant, like everyone was hiding, or had fled. Those folks were probably wise.

Imoen glanced back at the rest of her little crew, spread throughout the attic of the derelict building they'd commandeered. Minsc leaned against a wall, arms crossed at his chest. Viconia sat cross-legged near his feet, head down and obviously brooding. You could feel the waves of bitchiness rolling off'a her.

"Ya don't need to be here, ya know," Imoen said, breaking the silence. "None of you do."

"Yet here we are," Viconia replied. "I have followed you, _khal'abel_ , through hardship and victory both. I would, of course, prefer to be sleeping at the moment, but I shall not leave you to enact your foolish schemes alone."

Kirian chuckled. "Pissing off the Cowled Wizards _right_ after getting into their good graces does seem a bit foolish." She'd a mischievous grin on her face. Seemed she approved of such foolishness. Raising her bottle, she downed another quaff of wine.

"Well," Imoen said, "maybe they won't be pissed when we end up rescuing them from this creature what's lurking in the sphere. If they actually show up to unlock it." Looking back out the open window, she pondered a moment. "Hm. ' _The Creature that Lurks in the Sphere._ ' Sounds like a good name for an adventure story."

"Horror story, more like," said Kirian.

Baeloth giggled. "Agreed. Or perhaps just: _'The Lurker in the Sphere.'_ Though that lacks a certain panache." He cocked his head, thinking. "' _The Lurker in the Sphere from Beyond the Stars?'_ Hm? No. Far, far too much of a mouthful."

"Beyond the stars?" Kirian asked.

"Yeah," Imoen said. "No one actually knows where the darn thing teleported in from."

"It's obviously a device of the Outer Planes," Baeloth stated. "The interesting ones always are. And in a certain sense that makes it from 'beyond the stars.' In any case, you should never let the facts get in the way of a provocative name. And wherever it's from, it shall be a delight to witness whatever wonders and horrors are sleeping within!"

"You've a strange definition of delight," Viconia grumbled.

"I do indeed."

Conversation sputtered out after that, and Imoen focused on her watch, leaning out the window to spy on the sphere and the street. She'd assumed —based on everything Valygar had said, and how the cowled folk had reacted when he'd been turned in for the bounty— that the wizards would be taking him to the sphere right-quick. No one had stated it outright, but it was pretty obvious that the Cowlies saw this man as the key to this here magic puzzle.

Also pretty obvious that Valygar considered it a _very_ bad idea to solve that puzzle. Even if he wasn't going to get his way, maybe Imoen and her crew could at least-

_Oh!_ And just like she'd guessed, here came some robed figures, filing around the corner at the far end of the street. For a better view, Imoen slipped out further, straddling the windowsill and bracing a foot on the slanted roof beneath.

_Yup._ This here was a whole procession of people in mushroom-robes, lit faintly by some sort of glowing sticks a few of 'em carried, and sure enough there was a distinctively-dressed figure being marched between 'em.

Valygar Corthala's hands were still bound, and like before he'd a stoic look on his face, head held high even as he was led towards the sphere and the scaffolding. Reminded Imoen a bit of some noble king from a storybook, all composed and defiant even as he was being led to an execution ground ( _Ugh. I hope that's not actually the intent here_ ).

Of course it was often the way in those tales for the noble guy to get rescued at the last instant. There'd be last minute evidence revealed, or a cavalry charge, or maybe even an arrow zipping in to strike the hangman's rope. Imoen had plenty of arrows on hand. One _truestrike_ spell at the ready, too.

For whatever reason, the Cowlies had let Valygar keep his armor, which was obviously custom-tailored and of fine make. The trim around the leather straps and splints was golden, and the studs had been smoothed and polished to shine like pearls. Certainly added to his noble appearance.

Turning to her companions, Imoen huddled down and whispered: "Alrighty then. They actually showed up, prisoner included. We'll do this like usual. I'll scout ahead, and the rest of you count to a hundred, then go down to the street and start inching forward. Just treat that street and the scaffolding like one of the passages under Durlag's Tower, and we'll be peachy. Bit like if that there door into the sphere was the doorway to Kial's tomb."

"We all remember those caves," Viconia whispered. "Yes."

"And _no_ heroic charging ahead _unless_ actual battle has broken out. Got that Minsc?"

He nodded.

"Goodie." With that, Imoen turned and slipped out the window, balancing on the narrow roof as she went through the words and gestures of an _invisibility_ spell. Soon as she'd winked out of sight, she turned around, dropped to hang by her hands off the ledge, then slipped down to a lower overhang. From there she hopped onto an old stone wall, then dropped down to the dusty street, silent as a shadow.

Dashing to the other side, she timed things so that she got to the wooden ramp at the foot of the scaffolding a few steps behind the last wizard in the procession. She gave the cowlie a moment, then followed, bending low, footsteps careful.

She stopped short of climbing fully up the ramp, crouching in a position where she could safely peep. You could never fully trust _invisibility_ at the best of times, and these were magic people she was dealing with. Best not to get in eyesight if she could help it.

_Eh._ They didn't notice her for now, at least. All attention was on Valygar and the sphere.

There were six cowled folks in total, four of 'em dressed in plain gray robes while the other two sported a bit more color; one in red and one in yellow-gold. Reminded Imoen a bit of the color-coded robes the monks would wear in Candlekeep, to mark their place in the monastery's hierarchy, though these robes were puffier; designed to hide the face, build, and gender of the wearer.

After a little murmuring between the wizards, the one in the fine gold robes (that color just _had_ to make 'em the leader, didn't it?) pointed at the hatch and looked to Valygar. "All you need do is touch it." A masculine voice.

Valygar stood his ground.

After a little staring contest, the man in gold shook his head and brushed his hood back. Looked like a fairly old man, with a severe frown and close-cropped hair. "You are thinking that we'll kill you the moment the sphere is open? Do not fear that. We'll need you on the inside, too."

Again, no response from Valygar.

"We never intended you harm to begin with. You could have entered this place without chains, working with us. This sphere is your birthright, and we only wished to safely-"

"This sphere is my curse," Valygar said. "And you wish to pillage it. But you've no idea how dangerous it is. It will eat you alive."

"We've every idea, and we are the most equipped and qualified to contain that danger."

"You are just vultures. And Lavok is a creature far more-"

"Enough stalling!" the mage in the red robes snapped. She then aimed a finger at Valygar and droned out an enchantment, and once the light of her spell had flared across the distance she barked out a command: "You _will_ press your hand to the door."

Valygar just stood there, glaring. The man in gold chuckled. "A waste of a spell. The Corthalas are a…confounding lot."

"My will is my own," Valygar stated.

"It is not a matter of will. But she is right: enough posturing." Gold Robes gestured at his subordinates. "You two: grab his wrists and _make_ him touch the hatch."

They did just that, gripping and turning Valygar around. Imoen thought maybe they'd catch an elbow and a kick for it —one last badass act of defiance— but there was no resistance. Valygar just let them move him and shove his hands against the surface of the steel.

The door reacted instantaneously, clicking and then sliding in like some piece of gnomish machinery. Kind of understated, after all the drama: there was no further humming, no flashing lights, and no real signs of magic. No monster burst out through the door, either, though everyone stared into the dark gap for a good long while, like maybe they were waiting for one.

Eventually, Gold Robes broke the spell. "Easy enough then. Let's move."

The rest obeyed, two of the gray robes going in first. Imoen gave the procession a brief head start, then crept up onto the scaffolding and over to hatchway. It seemed like it was open, at least for now. Best to move quick. She crossed the threshold.

* * *

Silent and cautious, the rest of the group crept through the front room of the derelict building, and then out into the street.

Well. _Mostly_ silent and cautious. The tall, broad _rivvil_ male thundered on as always, his head high and his greatsword rattling against his armored back.

Walking just behind him, Viconia could not help but shake her head. Twas true that this giant imbecile made for a decent arrow-shield and decoy at times, but here he was a hindrance. With a grumble, she reached up and grasped a leather strap at the back of his armor. She had never been naturally strong, but thanks to her enchanted gloves she managed to grip and tug hard enough to give him pause, and when he turned she went up on her toes, stuck her chin out, and hissed in his face:

"Move in silence, idiot."

When the male replied, his voice boomed ( _How predictable!_ ) "But we are chasing-"

She cut him off. "You _claim_ to be a ranger. A male adapted to the wilderness, capable of stalking through its reaches? By Shar, I have even seen you prove it! You have stalked wild game to feed our cookfires. Why can you not be stealthy here?"

"Minsc is-"

"Shh! Lower your voice."

He actually did. Surprising. "Minsc is capable of sneaking," he whispered.

"Then _prove_ it."

"It is just that…" He winced. "It would be cowardly for a hero to-"

"Cowardice does not enter this. We are not seeking a fight. We are following these robed ones with watchful eyes, to learn their intent. That is best done in _silence_."

The male pondered this. "There is sense in your words. Like those of a witch." He bent his knees, lowering himself. "We will sneak up on evil, then. Minsc and Boo will be as a tiger and his mouse-friend."

Swiveling, he again started for the scaffolding, and to Viconia's _absolute_ shock he did manage to step along without making a sound. He even seemed to choose the darkest path to take, his strides long. Viconia hurried to follow, and soon they were creeping up the ramp.

"Excellent," she whispered, and on impulse she reached out and gave the male's muscular behind (it was sticking out rather prominently, from this vantage) a silent pat. "Perhaps you actually are a ranger."

Minsc looked back. "I am. But…" He pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh. We are being sneaky."

Viconia had to suppress a chuckle. An imbecile most times, but the _rivvil_ had his moments.

They were likely well behind Baeloth and Kirian, who had both used _invisibility_ spells before they'd all fanned out. Not a bad thing, though, to be in the back of the group. ( _Most_ times). There was no one in sight, up by the open hatch of the sphere. They crept up to it, still saw no one, and then crossed the threshold, entering a narrow tunnel.

Such a strange construct, this thing. It appeared to be made entirely of…

* * *

…metal. What a weird substance to construct your _whole_ building out of, from the mesh floor to the riveted walls and ceiling. The first door Imoen came upon was pretty odd too: all round and bulky, made out of steel and apparently opened via a small wheel, rather than a knob or latch. It stood slightly ajar.

She approached, mindful of how easy her footsteps might carry here, but before she got close enough to peak there was a little clanging sound behind her. She looked back. Nothing. Visible. "Kirian?" she whispered.

Her guess was right, 'cause the invisible woman grunted back at her. "Yeah. Baeloth's next to me."

"Alrighty then." _Blech._ Imoen was trying to hiss/whisper as low as she could, but it was near impossible to keep a voice from sounding off these walls. Shame they couldn't use drow hand signs, being invisible and all. "You pair hang back at the door, and I'll scout ahead."

"Okay."

With that, Imoen turned and tiptoed over to the hatch, then slipped through. Past the threshold, she found herself in a large, circular chamber that split off in three more directions.

The doors here looked the same as the one that she had entered through: round, with a wheel in the center. Two were ajar, while the one at the far end was shut. Raised bronze patterns streaked across the floor and walls, and the ceiling was a high dome, crisscrossed with tessellations. Some of the patterns glowed bright, lighting the chamber.

Imoen edged her way in, back to the wall and aiming to search the open door to the left, but the sound of footsteps froze her in place. She hunched down and braced herself, checking her hands to make sure she was still invisible.

There was a lot of echoing clip-clops, then Mr. Gold Robes came marching in through the lefhand door, holding some sort of rod. He kept turning it over and over in his hand, examining the thing. Some of his lackeys followed (just two), along with their prisoner (none-the-worse for ware, and stoic as ever). The lady-mage in the red robe entered a moment later, from the opposite doorway, flanked by the other two henchmen. She spoke immediately:

"We found little of use. A dead-end chamber with a massive scrying pool. It was fixed on a single image."

"Oh?" Gold Robes asked.

"A bird's eye view of this neighborhood. The sort you'd see with a well-placed _clairvoyance_ spell. There were also some dust mephits buzzing around, keeping the place clean. They were hostile, but frail."

"Hm. Makes sense. This place is well-maintained, which indicates that there is an intelligence here. Lavok, or something else. Well-maintained, yet dormant. I believe this…" He waved the rod he was holding about. "…is the key to waking it up." With that, Golden Robes turned and made his way towards the one closed door in the chamber.

The others followed, Valygar at the rear of the procession, and as he was turning his eyes fell upon Imoen and her blood ran cold. He could see her. No doubt in her mind. And just to drive the point home, he gave her the slightest little nod before fully swiveling and marching on with his captors.

Once they'd reached the hatch, Gold Robes fiddled with his rod (No! Not like that!) until he'd fit into some sort of receptacle (Again: not like that!) in the wall. Next, he pulled the rod down like a switch.

Sure enough, there were some whirs and clicks from inside, then the wheel of the hatch loosened and spun. At the same time, a ghostly, emotionless voice echoed from somewhere above:

" _Seals disengaged._ "

"We're getting somewhere," Gold Robes said. He prodded the hatch and it creaked open, then he stepped through and the others followed. Beyond, there appeared to be a hall, identical to the entranceway.

Once again, Imoen counted for a couple beats, giving the mages a head start, then she crept along to follow, moving through the hatch and what appeared to be an inner bulkhead. This place seemed a bit like the interior of a ship, she figured. A metallic ship, designed by folk who liked everything to be rounded.

At the far end of the hallway, the mages swished on into the next room, and Imoen caught an echo of Red Robe's voice: "Fascinating! This seems to be some sort of lab-"

A clanging noise cut her off, and the cold, ambient light flickered out, replaced in an instant by flashing red. A keening, mechanical wail rose up, echoing off the walls and ceiling. All the hatches slammed shut, the wheels spinning and locking into place while the floor gave a violent lurch.

Imoen dropped to her hands and knees, her stomach doing cartwheels. Felt like it was trying to flip its way up and out her mouth. The steel beneath her hands vibrated, the grating digging into her palms. Her teeth rattled.

There was another violent judder, slamming her down harder and pulling her guts in the other direction. The flashes assaulted her eyes while the wail hammered at her ears. Over the noise, she heard the sound of the soulless voice once again:

" _Inner seals breached. Foreign presence detected. Outer seals closed and locked. Plane shift imminent! Plane shift immanent! Brace for realignment._ "

Steel groaned. Sounded like it was bending. Curling in. Through it all the red light pulsed, on and on, in time with the screaming alarm. Then came a brighter light, while and crackling, leaving a million shivering stars in its wake.

Shivers and tingles. The back of her brain was being tickled, and instead of lurching or dropping, her stomach was doing both things at once. Hells, it was in at least two _places_ at once: three feet to the left (it felt like), but also somewhere at the bottom of the Trackless Sea. Her lungs were somewhere else, too. Her head was trying to float off her shoulders and drift away. Everything tickled.

There was another jolt, the floor bounced, and then it settled. Imoen found herself laying there on her side, apparently whole. The lights were back to normal, and the pulsing alarm was gone. Her eyes just itched now, and everything was spinning.

After a couple of blinks, she pushed on up. There was a hacking cough nearby, and she turned to find Kirian kneeling and retching up a bellyful of wine. Baeloth sat there too, clothes tangled and back against the wall. He was obviously flustered, while trying not to look it.

Imoen got to her feet, shaking off a couple'a aches. She could see her hands now. No more invisibility. "Did you see the others?" she asked.

Kirian nodded. "They were just entering the anteroom when the Hells broke loose."

Imoen staggered over to the door that she'd entered from (least she thought this was the right door; she was a smidge disoriented), and knocked. "Minsc? Viconia? Did you get left back there?" She banged harder. "Minsc?! You there?!"

Next, she gripped the wheel and tried it. It wasn't locked, and after pushing past a little resistance it almost seemed to spin on its own. With a click it came open.

There was no sign of Minsc or Viconia on the other side. There was no sign of the _anteroom_ , for that matter. It was like she'd opened a door into a whole 'nother world. A _fishy_ world, of all things.

A briny stench wafted through. This place was decorated with jagged coral, along with spines that hung from the ceiling like stalactites. Its floor and walls were a deep sea-blue, speckled with barnacle-growths.

There were at least a dozen bipedal creatures occupying the chamber, too, their scaly hides all various shades of green or blue, wet and slick like they were fish just out of water. They had amphibious faces. They had dead, black eyes. They had sharp little teeth.

Oh. And they were all heavily armed, and each and every one of them was looking at Imoen, raising spears of bone and opening their fishy-mouths. A couple of them were armed with crossbows, carved from coral and fishbone. They took aim.

"Well..." Imoen managed to mutter.

"Beshaba's kiss!" Kirian added, at her side. "Tongue included!" She dove aside, and Imoen did the same. Serrated bolts flew past them, there were some bladdery hisses from the other side of the doorway, and then Kirian managed to shove the hatch shut with her foot, launch up, and spin the wheel tight. Clangs rang from the other side.

Kirian backed a step and raised her sword. They all looked at the hatch-wheel, weapons and spell-hands raised, waiting for the thing to start spinning the other way. It didn't, though. A moment passed, and they just heard a couple more bangs. Maybe it was locked (thought there didn't seem to be an obvious way to lock it). Maybe the fishy-monsters didn't know how the device worked.

"Guess we're going the other way," Imoen said, whirling and marching towards the opposite hatch.

_Urm_. But there wasn't a hatch there. Instead, there seemed to be a quaint wooden door, imbedded in a wall of stone that merged after a span with the regular steel of the hallway. That _definitely_ hadn't been there when she was following the cowled people. Everything must have changed after the plane shift.

Rushing to the door, Imoen tried the latch, and found that it was locked. No big obstacle. She pulled out her tools, knelt, and fiddled with the mechanism for a moment while the others kept their eyes (and spell-hands) aimed at the fishy door. It wasn't complicated; with a little probing and prodding the not-fishy-door clicked and unlocked.

Didn't open, though. It seemed to be barred from within. _Darn_.

A muffled voice called out from the other side, speaking in some foreign tongue. " _Krixok lavorla?!_ "

"Um, we don't mean no harm," was all Imoen could think of as a reply.

" _Nurkol tull imshada_." The stranger's tone didn't sound angry. More like curious. If she could just get past the language barrier and convince this guy that he was dealing with reasonable people-

Kirian butted in, aglow with strength-enhancing magic, and smashed her foot against the door. There was a snap and a clang, then the whole of it went flying inward. Kirian rushed on through, sword in hand.

_Reasonable people. Yeah._

Drawing her own blade, Imoen followed. It appeared that the clang she'd heard had been a heavily armored man falling over. He was flat on his back now, and Kirian had stomped her way on top of him, one foot holding down his wrist while she pointed her sword at his throat.

There were two more folks deeper in the room, also dressed in plated armor; a man and a woman. Both were holding halberds, waving them at Kirian and looking rightly pissed. Imoen tried to get their attention with a placating gesture. "We really don't mean any harm. There were just…these spikey fish-man-monsters, and we were in a hurry so-"

" _Dracul krix kovac!_ " the woman shouted, gesturing with her poleax. Sounded like a demand.

"Yeah. Uh. I'd totally like to. But I don't understand what yer saying." Imoen pushed her free hand into her enchanted bag. "Luckily, I've got a remedy for that. If you'll just be patient."

Meanwhile, Baeloth had slipped in behind them and shut the door, locking it with a key. ( _Huh? Where'd he get that from?_ )

" _Dracul krix kovac!_ " the woman repeated, shaking her halberd, and in reply Kirian glared and pressed her own weapon closer to the poor guy's throat.

"You at least understand the concept of hostages, right?" Kirian snapped. "Right?"

Managing to pull her scroll free, Imoen unfurled it. "Just a sec, and we'll work this all out." She met the angry, armored woman's eyes and gave her a pleading look. With the _tongue's_ scroll, and some reasoning, this would all…

_Urm._ Or maybe the armored folk would assume she was using the scroll to cast a hostile spell, and they'd all start trying to murder each other in a second. Either way, the situation was about to get resolved. Imoen drew in a breath, then started reading the words on the scroll.

* * *

With foggy head and aching ribs, Viconia came to. _Blast it!_ She must have blacked out. Pressing her hands to the floor, she rose and gave her head a violent shake, forcing her eyes open.

The floor. It was…different. She was no longer in the foyer. This room was roughly the same size, with rounded walls as well, but it was patterned differently, and crowded with equipment. Panels of machinery occupied one corner, along with rows of tubes and bubbling glass tanks (of the sort she'd seen in mage's labs [and the lairs of mind flayers]).

There were no organs or bodies suspended in the liquid, though. For the moment.

There was another occupant in the room as well. The big, bald, human imbecile sat near the collection of tanks, his face cradled in his hands. "Ohhh…" the male groaned. "Minsc's head has been turned inside out!"

"Calm yourself," Viconia hissed, standing and approaching the _rivvil._

He did not calm. Looking about, he gasped and sputtered. "This room! It's not right!"

"Silence! Magic is at work here. Many things will 'not be right,' and we must simply adapt. As swiftly as we can, if we are to survive this place."

"But we were…where is my witch?! I was following her!" He continued to panic.

Viconia used two fingers to poke the giant idiot in the forehead. "Look at me! Into my eyes!" He faced her, and she cupped his chin with her hand. "There is a witch _right_ here, in front of you. A wise woman, who will guide you through this place of madness." As she spoke she called up the cold, uncompromising power of her goddess. " _Understand_ that."

The divine _command_ seemed to pierce his thick skull, and his look softened. He nodded.

"Follow my orders," Viconia continued. "And we shall find Imoen and escape this place."

Again, the male nodded, and there was a soft squeak from the front of his armor. Viconia tried not to flinch, noticing the little rat. "Yes," Minsc boomed. "She is wise. Just as you say, Boo.

"Glad we are in agreement," Viconia whispered, beckoning for the male to stand up. "Now keep your voice down and follow my lead. We do not wish to draw attention…" Her voice trailed off and she stiffened as her gaze returned to the row of glass tanks.

Something was off. Different. It appeared they had _already_ drawn unwanted attention.

Gripping Minsc's elbows, she guided him to the side, so that he too faced the bank of tubes and tanks. He did not protest, shifting about casually. At the same time, Viconia tried to peak around, hoping not to alert-

Bah. Too late for that, though. _They_ knew that she knew. She could not see the lurkers, but she felt the building pressure in the air. The eyes upon her. The tension before an ambush.

The best course now would be to preempt. So she did just that, leaping backwards, a chakram drawn and spinning around her finger.

Sure enough, her action provoked a response, and the hunters started moving. They'd been hiding behind the tanks. There were several creatures: goblin-sized but human in appearance, armed with clubs and bone-tipped spears, just peaking and aiming with their weapons.

The chakram flew at the nearest one, but it dodged aside, howling and then charging. A she-creature, armed with a spear and clad in little more than strings and bones, its face smeared with ochre war-paint and its hair a stringy mess. It dropped to a knee and heaved it's spear back, while Viconia bumped Minsc's side and hissed a prayer.

Shar heard her, and answered with a cloud of darkness. The spear whistled by, striking nothing. There appeared to be four little creatures in total, hunched and springy. They'd started to charge in, but the cloud of darkness gave them pause. They tested its edge with their weapons.

"Wha-" Minsc started.

"Obey my orders!" Viconia hissed, cutting him off. She snatched his wrist and turned him some degrees, her other hand raising a chakram and hurling at it a creature's face. It managed to dodge. These little things were _fast_. "Draw your sword!" Viconia added.

Minsc's blade was out and braced between his giant paws, just like that.

Meanwhile, one of the creatures shrieked out words, his language squawky and harsh. The enchantment imbued in Viconia's ear-stud translated for her:

"Your ink-cover means nothing! We see your pulsing heat! We see your beating hearts!"

"We see your blood pump," a second creature added. "And the meat that surrounds it."

"Ohhh yes," another taunted. "Brothers and sisters. We have gone far too long without fresh meat to sup upon!"

A performative show, meant to intimidate. They encircled the cloud as they taunted, weapons pointing in, still testing.

Viconia decided to do some testing as well, raising a hand and chanting out her next prayer. Mid-chant, she felt a prickle at the base of her neck, and she had to suppress a shiver. This was a surprise. It had been years since she had felt a psionic attack, and this one was actually rather clever: a sneak-in through the pleasure zones rather than a hammer to the cortex.

Still, this attacker was no illithid. Viconia made her mind a fortress and soldiered on.

At the climax of the prayer a pair of shadows slithered out from the greater cloud of darkness, rising up to take solid form and then hissing and leaping at the nearest foe. That distracted two of the little beasts, but the others grew bold, poking into the cloud with spear and club.

Viconia found herself spinning away from a jab. She tapped Minsc's elbow, shouting: "Your left! Strike downward!"

He did as he was bid, swinging and chopping, and the nearby creature had no time to duck or skitter; only shake and collapse as his skull split open.

Something rushed in beside Viconia, and she rolled and danced away. "Your right! By your arm! Hit it!"

Again, Minsc reacted instantly, his elbow swinging in to smash the creature (a female) in the face, followed by a kick to its stomach that threw it bodily from the cloud of darkness.

There was a presence by Viconia's back, poking. She side-stepped, caught the haft of the spear, and yanked. A tugging match ensued.

The spear-wielder was stronger than she, despite her enchantment, but no matter. They were in grappling range, and she held on long enough to invoke Shar's power and then press her hand against the little beast's arm, a spell of _harm_ on her lips. Red light flared, smoke rose, and then the creature dropped its spear and fell onto its back, sliding away across the floor.

Viconia followed, lifting the spear, and before the creature could right itself (himself, rather — if nothing else, the penis and testicles that had flopped out from the ruffled breechcloth certainly gave that away) Viconia reversed her grip and stabbed down, skewering the little male cleanly through the chest. He writhed and gripped the spear, and she stepped back and let him struggle, confident that she'd pierced the heart.

Looking up, she surveyed the chamber. The summoned shadows were gone, but the two remaining hunters had melted back to the doorway, wounded and harried. They surveyed the scene, scowling, then they spun and sprinted out of sight.

"What next?" Minsc asked, still standing in the center of the magical darkness. Unlike Viconia, he likely couldn't see through it.

"Be still," she ordered. "We slew two, and the rest have fled. Best not to test our luck by pursuing them into the unknown." She waved the darkness away, giving them a better view of the room, and the corpses. Stepping over, she inspected the tiny man with the spear through his chest. There were still some involuntary twitches running through his body, but his eyes were far away. His ears were pointed, like an elf's, though he had more of an adult human's proportions. Quite stocky and muscular.

"Halflings," Minsc said, a bit puzzled.

"Indeed. Though not the sort to offer us wine and cheese." Viconia's eyes swept the laboratory, critical of every detail. They were alone now. She was certain. "These are skilled hunters. We must match that skill. So remain silent until I order otherwise."

Minsc made no sound. There wasn't even a squeak from the rodent.

_Hm. I may come to enjoy being a witch._

* * *

"Real sorry 'bout all this," Imoen repeated, speaking the language of the armored strangers now. "We were just trying to get away from some monsters, quick as we could, and…well…no permanent harm done, right?"

The woman with the halberd was still glaring, but she gave a slight nod. Seemed they had an uneasy truce going now, facing off on separate sides of the round stone chamber. The man who Kirian had bull-rushed and flattened was back on his feet, with his companions, a handkerchief pressed to the cut on his chin. All three of the strangers were dressed in heavy, plated armor, polished to a silver sheen and enameled at the edges.

Some sort of fancy knights, that was fer sure. They looked at home, too. The room seemed for all the world like part of a castle tower, complete with a dummy in decorative armor over by the wide fireplace. A round table with checkered cloth sat at the center of the chamber, surrounded by plush chairs. Above it hung a simple, wooden chandelier that bathed the place in warm candlelight. There were even a couple of windows, all shuttered up. Several bedrolls were spread out by the hearth.

"There are a great many monsters in this…strange space," the armored woman said, after a time. "We have witnessed horrors."

"Lovely. So, uh…how did you end up here? Who are you folks, anyways?" _What in blazes is this place? What were those fish monsters? Is this really a piece of a castle?_ So many questions, but Imoen restrained herself.

"I am Reyna. A Knight of the Sword. This is Onvo…" she gestured at the big, bullish fellow who wore a dangly moustache that would have made Edwin jealous, "…and Ancam." The guy Kirian had flattened was the youngest of the bunch. "All of the Solmanic order. Hm. Though I suppose that means little to you. As for how we came to be here…well. Some foul sorcery snatched us up, though we know not how or why. One moment we were assembled here in this chamber of our watchtower, overlooking the Vingaard Mountains and getting ready to eat, then next we knew there was a...sort of fluttering, then the doors opened up on…strange places."

"Otherworldly places," Onvo put in.

"Oh? So ya didn't get in through the front door of a big metal sphere?"

The eyes of all three knights widened. "Sphere?!" Reyna exclaimed.

"Yeah, that's how we got here."

"That would…explain some things."

"I knew it was no coincidence," Onvo muttered.

"There was a strange device," Reyna explained. "It appeared in the mountains within sight of our fort. A great sphere, made of silver steel. We made a sortie, but the thing appeared to be sealed and impenetrable. We concluded that it was a matter best left to experts in the arcane, so we requested that a wizard of the White Robe be sent from Vingaard Keep to investigate. Before anyone arrived, however, we were…plucked up in the night. The sphere. That would explain where 'here' actually is."

"Inside some world-hopping device," Imoen said. "Guess it scooped you up when it plane shifted. Wonder if that's accidental or…"

"More likely that's this place's function," Baeloth mused. He had his back to everyone, busy examining the decorative suit of armor. "It snatches up samples from the worlds it visits. For magical experimentation, perhaps? Or maybe the owner of this place is simply one of those eccentric collector-types, and we are now part of his menagerie. Oh! Or perhaps we are like little mice, trapped in this magical maze for our master's amusement. Or there might even be a larger, hidden audience, watching and wagering on how we fare in here!"

He then turned his head, looking up and addressing the hypothetical viewers. "If anyone is secretly listening, I advise that you place your bets on me! This is far from my first run as a mouse in a maze. I guarantee I'll be the winner!"

Since Baeloth was using some sort of divination magic to understand the knights, while speaking Chondathan aloud himself, the three Solmanic folks had no idea what he was saying, and they all gave him blank looks. Probably for the best.

"How long have you been here?" Imoen asked, putting her back to the raving drow. "Have you explored much of this place?"

"Difficult to tell," Reyna said. "Though it must have been a month, at least. And…we have not gone far. There were five of us, you see, when we first arrived."

"Oh." Imoen's eyes widened. "Oh. I'm so sorry."

"The first few chambers were harmless," Reyna went on, looking off. "A laboratory. A strange cave, full of roots and moss. Then we came upon a chamber that was like…a dark desert? A dry lake bed, perhaps. There we were swarmed by a tribe of kender, stronger and more fearsome than any I have ever seen. They wielded strange magics, and tore at us like animals. One of our knights and…poor squire Keelin were both lost. We were forced to fall back and fortify this place."

Onvo shook his head. "Savage creatures. We tried to mount a rescue for Keelin, but when we scouted close we found that the kender had…" He fought to keep his voice from breaking.

"They'd spit him like a hog, over a fire," Renya stated plain. "They were eating him."

"When you people arrived," Ancam said, "I was happy to hear a voice that was not like a monster's." He shot Kirian a glare. "Until the door burst open and a sword was shoved in my face."

"Sorry 'bout that," Imoen said for the umpteenth time.

"A cowardly and honorless way to greet strangers."

Kirian snorted. "Nothing cowardly about storming a room and laying a man out before he knows what hit him. Felt downright brave in the moment. You sore loser."

Again, the knights couldn't understand what Imoen's companions were saying. Again, Imoen was grateful for the language barrier. "Maybe we can make amends," she proposed. "I've an idea. If you folks have been trapped in here for a month, the food and water situation must be dire, eh?"

"Yes," Reyna admitted. "We found water in the cave. And this was once our feasting hall. We rationed, but it has all run out some time ago."

"Well aren't you in luck then?" Imoen patted her handy-dandy bag of holding. "Let's make our truce official. By breaking bread together!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems we'll be alternating between Imoen and Ashura chapters for a while. I hope readers are okay with that.
> 
> And as you might have noticed, I’m having a lot of fun making the sphere a bit less of a linear dungeon than usual. It’s a weird, extra-planar space, after all. Why can’t the rooms all shift around?


	11. A Slippery Mind

_"_ _An indomitable wall of willpower and discipline is the traditional defense against charm spells and psionic attacks. Of course, throwing out a stream of incoherent and hard-to-follow thoughts has also proved a winning strategy for some."_ -Laspeera Inthre, _Mageduels: A Manual_

* * *

Cernd did the talking, his tone calm despite all the pointed questions thrown his way, and after a time Lord Coprith and his companion relaxed a bit. The stage they'd picked for this little interrogation was some sort of conference chamber: spacious and dominated by a long hardwood table. Lord Coprtih stood at the head, gripping the back of a chair, and at his side stood a finely-dress Amnish woman who'd introduced herself as Guildmistress Busya.

There were also a _lot_ of guards present, and more lined up in the adjacent halls. These folks were clad in some sturdy-looking mail, too; better equipped and presented than the ragged militia members that Ashura had encountered earlier. All were dressed uniformly, their tabards emblazoned with a pair of golden axes, which was the same sigil that Lord Coprith wore.

The show of force had Ashura wondering if coming into this lion's den had been mistake. Flashes of the Flaming Fist compound couldn't help but come back to her. _Eh_. At least this was a gentler interrogation than what she'd endured there. And she was armed and armored, now. As the talk passed by her ears, she pondered where to swing her sword first if things broke down. Coprith was the obvious target, but that guardsman just to her left would be the biggest threat…

"Hm…" Lord Coprith hummed to himself. He shook his head. "You're really Cernd Bladesmile? I think I met you once or twice when I was twelve. At one of Lady Zoar's picnic-solons."

Cernd looked down and gave a slight shake of his head. "I abandoned that name, and the corresponding holdings, when I chose to serve the balance." He gave Lord Coprith a significant look. "No blades for me. Nor the smiles that they might open. But I was born of these lands, and that is the reason my circle chose to send me to this place. I know the woods. I know the circle here." A slight nod. "I remember Lady Opala Zoar's parties, as well."

Lord Coprith chuckled. "Well, I won't turn help away. _Especially_ if your help means you'll be striking out into the woods as soon as possible."

"Our goals appear to be complimentary. Yes. With your leave I will slip from your town as silent and unseen as the stalking cat, and take my investigation to its source."

"That would be good." The lord's eyes shifted to Ashura. "You people as well. Help is welcome here. Trade too. What's not welcome is summoned devils and werewolves in the streets."

Ashura shrugged. "Yeah. Seems we'll be headed into the woods too."

"Before we leave," Cernd added, "more information would be appreciated. Your guardsmen told tale of…a girl who initiated all of this?"

"Aye," the lady-official said. "As far as we can tell, this all started with Lord Khellon Menold's expedition into the eastern Wealdath. His people set out as soon as the snows thawed, and about two weeks ago what was left of 'em came crawling back to hide behind the town walls. This brash girl showed up just after. Maybe twenty winters old, with brown hair and a tattoo over her eye." She pointed at Cernd. "Dressed a bit like you, and flanked by other druids. She said that Lord Khellon had defiled sacred groves and springs, and recompense had to be paid."

"Ah," Edwin put it. "So all of this could have been avoided if you had simply sacrificed one of your lordlings and a few of his menservants? Seems that would have been the wisest course."

Lord Coprith bristled. "He is a man in good standing, under the merchant's peace."

"Yeah," the lady said. "In addition to causing a stir, feeding Khellon to the druids would have violated sacred laws. Bit of a shame. It would have saved a lot of lives and coin in the long run, and the little lord's a massive arsehole, anyway. Most wouldn't miss him."

"But that was _not_ an option," Lord Coprith said. "When we insisted on sheltering Khellon and his men, the girl said recompense would come in a different form. The animal attacks began the next day."

"Hm," Cernd mused. "It would require many to accomplish this. Either this girl has the blessings of the Great Druid, or she has taken command. Both are…unsettling prospects."

"You can find her, though?" the lady asked.

"Yes. I know where the sacred grove is located in the Northern Wealdath. That will be our destination."

"And you'll be leaving…uh…silent as a hunting cat?"

A bit of the stoniness left Cernd's features, and he almost gave the woman a smile. "That should be simple enough." With a smooth motion he spread out his cloak, leaves billowing, and then, in the space of a blink, those leaves became feathers, the cloak became a pair of wings, and the man's form began to shrink, evaporating down to that of a tiny, redbreasted bird.

Shifting from foot to foot, the bird danced on the carpet, then its wings fluttered and it shot up. It circled the room a few times, before finally alighting on Delainy's shoulder. That gave her a start, followed by a giggle.

The bird spoke, its voice high and sharp: "Had I know the welcome your city had in store for me, I would have arrived and stayed in this form."

* * *

In her time in the Underdark, Viconia had seen many bizarre sights. Caverns that had been twisted by the _faerzress_ radiation, or by the clever engineering of magical beings, to defy all rules and norms, gravity included. Her own people had built many such structures. Thus, the vast and vaulted space ahead of her was _not_ the strangest cavern that she had ever entered. A contender, though.

The place was a curving pathway of cracked earth that hung suspended over nothingness, the narrow spoits marked by massive bones that had been stuck into the cliff-sides. Jagged rocks lined the ridge, pointing at a sky that was completely blank. At the midpoint of the ridge, where it was broadest, a camp had been erected, with large, square tents made from some sort of reptile's hide. The whole of the place seemed to be lit by an ambient light without a visible source, suffusing all in dim greyscale.

This camp appeared to be the home of the savage halflings, and one of the little nuisances stood sentry on the path ahead. A poor sentry, though: his back was turned to Viconia and Minsc, and his attention was focused elsewhere, which was the entire reason that Viconia had risked slipping through the doorway and into this chamber in the first place.

The distraction came in the form of arcane flashes and explosive booms, echoing in from the other side of the cavern. A pitched battle was being waged there. The sentry stood tense, a bow in hand, possibly judging when to rush from his post and help his tribe.

Admirable, perhaps. Also foolish. A drow guard would have shown more discipline. And never turned his back on an open passageway. Slinking into striking range, Viconia held her breath and extended her hands, tensing the cord of sword spider silk that she held between them. With a final lunge she whipped the garrote out and against the front of the sentry's neck, twisting around and around as fast as she could. A prayer to Shar that she had issued minutes before made the squeezing and holding far easier, along with the strengthening enchantment of her gloves.

The little male was a knot of muscle, but his kicking and flailing did him no good. Elbows and feet were easily deflected by the layer of solid shadows that Viconia had called up to armor herself. A kick to the ribs almost got through, making her wince, but she held tight, and eventually the twisting and thrashing weakened. Moments later the halfling's body went slack.

Viconia waited sometime after that, to be sure the thing was dead, before disengaging the silken cord and dropping the dead weight flat on its face. The spider silk had come from a nest of the creatures, back in the Cloakwood forest roughly a year before. A tool made by one of The Spider Queen's children, yes, but it had been too tempting to pass up.

Down the slope, the battle still raged, enchanted fireworks flaring and halflings screaming warcries. It was easy enough to guess who the opposing side was, despite the walls of magical protections that covered them. Six figures, all dressed in robes. No one seemed to have noted Viconia and Minsc's entrance. Best to keep it that way.

She spied a large rock nearby that would serve as cover. First, though, she used her enchanted strength to drag the dead sentry over to the cliffside, then shoved him off. The little body plummeted and shrank, some unseen force making it spiral around and around before it popped out existence. Banished to another plane? Or perhaps it had simply been crushed to nothing. Either way, it would be vital to avoid falling.

Gesturing at Minsc, she moved to the rock and knelt. "Hide here, as best you can."

He nodded, though there was a tension to him. "Minsc obeys," he whispered back. "But…" He gestured with his chin towards the commotion. "There is battle. Is this not a time for heroing?"

"Not our battle. It would benefit us most if all these fools annihilated each other." The look he gave her was not approving. She decided to add a carrot, to coax this ox along. "The time for heroing shall come. And you have my leave, the moment you spot Imoen, to charge in and cut down anything between you and her."

"Thank you." He fell silent after that.

Judging by the noise, it appeared that the battle was moving closer. Whispering a prayer that cloaked her in shadows and obfuscated her from probing eyes, Viconia peaked around the boulder.

The cowled ones were nearest in view, all running. The one in golden robes had some sort of ghostly, conjured rope in hand, which he used to pull Valygar along, and the others ran at his heels. "Shrink against the stone and remain still," Viconia ordered her servant.

He did, and the cowled idiots appeared oblivious as they ran past, one of them whirling to fling up a wall of force that cut the halflings off. (It also cut off two of the wizards, but they had already been tackled and pushed to the ground. They would be dead in moments).

Shrinking against her cover, Viconia watched the wizards sprint by, not breathing until they had hustled through the doorway and disappeared. "We follow them now, before the halflings break though" she ordered, slipping from the rock. Minsc followed.

* * *

"This sure don't look like a cave or a lab or a lake bed," Imoen observed. This next 'room' inside the sphere seemed more like a forest at first glance, the floor all sodden dirt and moss, with walls of gnarled roots and twisting trunks. Branches meshed together to form an impenetrable ceiling above their heads, just letting in a little suffuse light that may have come from the sphere's glowlamps.

_Hrm_. A forest, or maybe this was some giant's root cellar. Or maybe a mushroom garden, 'cause the tops of some downright _gigantic_ toadstools were peeking out from behind a knot of roots.

The Solamnic knight named Reyna shook her head. "This makes no sense. There was a laboratory here, before."

"Maybe it all shifts around? This is a plane-shifting machine, after all."

"An unsettling thought."

"Well, we'll just have to take things one weird room at a time. Least there ain't no hostile-"

There was a wet, crunching sound over by the toadstools, then one of them dropped like a tree, its red brim rolling in the dirt. More noises follows: scratching and rustling.

_Dang. Spoke too soon._ Imoen shrugged her bow into her hand, snatched up an arrow, and took a step to the side. There was something off about the mushroom that had just toppled into view. Did it have…arms?

A reptilian figure followed from behind the root: human-shaped, slightly hunched, and thick of muscle. Its scaly hide was a dull, rust-red color, a sharp frill ran atop its head, and it barred sharp teeth as it hissed down at the…mushroom. Kind of an absurd sight.

Imoen backed a step, but before she could find a hiding spot the lizard-person's eyes alighted on her, and it turned, foisting up a halberd made of silver-steel. A second creature slithered into view behind the first, identical in appearance, resting the butt of its halberd against the earth as it pointed a hand in Imoen's direction. Felt like some magic was taking form on the palm of that hand. Imoen took aim with her bow, but the lizard spoke first:

"Ape. Do not point your sharpened stick at me." Its voice sounded exactly like that of a matronly woman. Weren't no hisses or excessive S-words or nothin.'

"This here's more than a stick," Imoen countered. "It's an enchanted broadhead, tipped with dwarf-forged steel and bolstered by elven runes. It'll piece plate armor clean, or whatever enchanted shielding you've got. Don't want to use it, though."

"Then you are less savage than the others we have met here. Such as these fungus…things." With care, the lizard lowered her hand. "You are stuck in this flytrap with us, then?"

"Yeah." Imoen lowered her bow. "Just arrived myself. Others of us have been holed up here for a while. You?"

"Trapped six cycles, as far as we can tell." Imoen had no clue what that meant —hours? Days? Years? The lizard didn't elaborate.

Now that she was looking closer, Imoen noticed that the halberds these creatures carried were like none she'd seen before. The basic shape of spikes and an ax-head on a pole was there, but the whole weapon was made of uniform material, all shiny, smooth, and streamlined. The lizardfolk wore no clothes or armor, save some bands of stretchy material that were lined with square-cut crystals, arranged in contrasting colors. A few of the crystals cast a dim light.

"I am Sixth-of-Chain," the second lizardfolk stated, in a distinctly male voice. Something about the way his mouth moved didn't really match his words. Some kind of translating magic, it seemed. "And my companion is Second-Over. We are guardians of a sleep-chamber, sworn to protect one of the Six-Hundred Princes through the long-sleep and the great night." He cocked his head. "Though I suppose those words mean little to you?"

"Nope. Sorry. Are these princes from…Toril?"

"What is that?"

"The planet we're from."

"No. Our world is the Sleeping Rock. Until we reach the Seeding World. This delay though…our chamber snatched from the Rock. It endangers the seeding itself."

"Do not be so melodramatic," the lizard-lady chided. "There are redundancies. _We_ are redundancies." To Imoen: "Though, if there is a way to undo our snatching out of space and time, we wish to find it. That is why the pair of us are risking a search of this…place. While the other mated pair guards our chamber."

"I suppose that's what we're looking for, too," Imoen replied. "Undoing space-snatching and such."

"Is it now?" Baeloth mused from behind her. "I thought your plan was to alleviate your sore conscious by rescuing a certain gruff, silent, hero-type fellow?"

"Yup. But undoing space-snatching devices'll probably coincide with that."

"Hm. Yes. I suppose alliances are necessary in these death-maze games." The drow put his hand against his mouth and pitched his voice in Imoen's direction. "Of course, sudden betrayals are common in these games, too. Be watchful of the lizards, and be ready with the backstabbing as soon as they look at us crossways."

"We can hear you," the lizard-lady said.

"Well of course you can. It wouldn't be a dramatic stage whisper if you couldn't."

"He's just like that," Imoen said, waving a dismissive hand in Baeloth's direction. She opened her mouth to ask the lizardfolk a question (and hopefully move the conversation along), but was interrupted by a derisive laugh from behind.

Turning, she found herself face to face with a stranger, and a _strange_ one at that. The figure was cloaked and cowled all in black, a curious blacklight-glow hanging about him.

"Cooperation," the stranger mused, chuckling. "An unusual reaction. The creatures caught in the gears of this place tend to just tear each other apart."

"Uh," Imoen stammered. "Yeah. Well, glad we ain't doin' that. Who are you?"

He ignored her question, his head tilted as he inspected the people and the lizards. The fellow appeared human, at first glance, but his eyes were amber pits without pupils, and his brown skin had a lustrous gleam to it. His clothes reminded Imoen a bit of a wraith's, all dark and wispy, and there was a hollow ring to his voice. "Hm," the stranger hummed to himself. "The last of the Corthalas is not among you? I do not see him, at least. But only he could have opened this place. Where is he? Have you seen him?"

"The last…" Imoen's eyes widened. "You're the master of the Sphere!"

Reyna caught on too, stomping forward and raising her halberd high. "Our captor? Why are you doing this?! We demand to be released!"

The stranger didn't even look at her. "Useless little insects," he grumbled to himself. "As usual." Then his brow furrowed and he whirled on Imoen, cocking his head. "Oh. Except for you." He stepped forward for a closer look. She'd put an arrow to her bowstring and aimed, pointblank, but he ignored that.

"Do you even hear us?!" Reyna demanded.

He didn't. He spoke to Imoen alone. "There is divinity in you. Dark. Cold. Ruinous. Born of Gehenna. And familiar in a roundabout...oh. Oh, I see. It appears I am not the only creature who thought to parcel out unstable powers, through his children. Fascinating."

"We are not here for your amusement, fiend!" Reyna shouted, lunging and swiping. Her ax's blade just whistled through the stranger and he wavered a moment, then re-solidified. Didn't even act like he noticed.

"You could not tell that this is a projection?" the female lizard asked.

Imoen hadn't been able to tell either, but she kept her mouth shut. Made her a bit less embarrassed about having been snuck up on.

"Amazing," the wraith continued. "A piece of the divine, locked away for safe keeping. Once, you might have been a useful discovery. Something for the labs. But the last Corthala boy is far more important at the moment." Turning, he just walked on past Imoen, then on between the dumbfounded people and the roots.

"If you see him," the wraith added, not bothering to look back, "tell him to hurry for the central chamber. He's a destiny awaiting him there, and I grow impatient." His voice shifted to a serpentine hiss. "Time grows short. Short. Short. Short!" Stepping into the wall, he vanished.

There was a silence then. Eventually Imoen broke it. "So…that's the creature what lurks in the sphere?"

"A smidge disappointing," Baeloth reflected. "I was hoping for an elder brain. Or several elder brains, all placing bets with each other on our progress. Seems the master here is just a mad human? Borrring."

Reyna turned to Imoen. "A piece of something divine? What did he mean by that?"

"Uh. Yeah." Imoen bit her lower lip. _Careful words, or should I just say it outright?_ "My father was one of our gods. Inherited a trick or two from him, I think."

"Good," the female lizard said. "Then perhaps that will be useful, when we show this creature up for underestimating us."

* * *

Warm rain tickled the leaves of the forest canopy, dribbling down to feed the roots and moss and underbrush. It was late spring, and the underside of the forest was awash with verdant green: the green leaves of saplings, of ancient vines, of shrubs and mulch-fed herbs, and the hearty plants that thrived in the half-light by the great roots.

Delainy recognized a _few_ of these plants. Over there, on wet, low ground, grew a patch of sleeping dragon flowers, their leaves gigantic but the flowers still folded in. In a half-moon's turn, perhaps, the flowers would open, and a medicine could be made from the petals to treat the aches of elders. Nearby, also thriving in the low, wet places, stretched the great spearhead leaves of several gold-stain plants. A decoction made from their roots was good for relieving constipation, and the roasted leaves were edible.

A patch of ground-cover they had passed earlier, with rounded leaves and little, purple flowers, could cure sicknesses of the lung, and she was fairly certain that the vines they were passing now would produce edible berries (tart, but good for warding off the heat) when summer began.

Of course, the vast majority of plants here were alien, and that was a bit overwhelming. There were many that seemed familiar at first glance, but then she would notice red seams running through the leaves, or something different about the texture of the bark, or branches that spiraled when they were supposed to run straight.

This wet forest, with its ancient, lichen-speckled trees, was so very much like the forest of her island home, and at the same time very much not. A place with alien names as well, though the mainlanders (the pack leader, the red-robe, and the newcomer with the leaf-cloak), spoke those names as if everyone was familiar.

The Forest of Tethyr. The Wealdath. And apparently this place had once been the Leaf-Cloak's home, before he moved to somewhere called The High Forest (again, a name spoken with reverence and meaning).

_Hm._ Delainy turned, giving the man a pondering look. She opened her mouth, then thought better and shut it, looking up to the leaking canopy instead. The rains had tapered off, or perhaps ceased entirely, some time ago. She did not mind the occasional drop that trickled down.

"You have something on your mind?" the man in the leaf-cloak asked. He'd sensed her eyes. Or perhaps her thoughts.

Delainy was silent a moment. "You were…living here?" she eventually asked. "In Tethyr Forest?" Once the words had left her mouth she cringed. Under the tutelage of the wise woman she and her brother had studied some of the outsider tongues, but she still spoke them awkwardly. Tense would always be a difficult puzzle to unravel, and the Chondathan language's many different versions of the 'past' was confusing.

_Bah!_ She had never even been comfortable with words in her _own_ tongue, with her own people.

"I wondered through these woods in my younger days, yes." If her mistakes at language bothered the man, he did not show it. "A restless pup, I was, uncertain of my place in this world. Old Gragus found me here, and took me under his wing. Perhaps it was-"

"So you are knowing this place's plants?" Delainy blurted out.

For a moment, the man with the leaf-cloak looked confused. "I…I sought the wisdom of the ancient oaks. Yes. And there is much that the quick blooming of the flowers can teach, I suppose."

Biting her lip, Delainy shook her head from side to side. "Not what I am meaning." She sighed. "These…tongues…it is being hard to…"

Leaf-Cloak placed a hand on her shoulder. "Apologies. As…" He measured his words and slowed his voice. "As always, when a stranger crosses one's path, calm and measured words and motions are best. The man who stumbles upon the bull elk in a clearing does not wish to provoke, but by his startled reaction he has already-"

"Calm and measured words," Delainy repeated. "Those are best. Rather than elaborite…elaborish…what is word?"

"Elaborate," the pack leader stated, gruff and concise as usual. She walked in the lead. "Elaborate metaphors. Cernd seems to love them."

The man with the leaf-cloak chuckled. "It was how my teachers spoke. In the circle." He turned to Delainy. "You wish to ask me about the local plants?"

"Exactly!" Smiling, she pointed. There was a vine that she had noticed growing all over the trail, with stem-like protrusions that weren't exactly thorns, and a red tinge to the leaves. "What is that?"

"The heart-leaf vine. Some call it cat's tongue. It is quite edible." As they passed the vine, Leaf-Cloak broke off a bit of it and chewed.

"It is making medicine?"

"Hm. It is healthy to eat. Beyond that, I do not know. Others of my faith know far more of herbal lore. I am more familiar with trees and beasts than with the vines and the little ones." Raising his head, his gaze flitted across the forest. "However, I _did_ spend my teen years in these woods. At the least, I can tell you the names of things, and share what little I know. What can be eaten."

"That is all I am being ask…" Delainy bit her lip and shook her head. "All I am asking. Ask? Is that wording better?"

"It does not matter. I know what you mean." Leaf-Cloak pointed towards some running water. "Those are puffmallow flowers. As I said, I know little of herbal lore, but those are notorious in this region. You know of them?"

Delainy shook her head. So Leaf-Cloak told her what he could. From there she began to point at more plants, asking questions as they walked along, and Durlyle and the pack leader interjected here and there.

As usual, the man in red robes complained about all the chatter. As usual, everyone ignored him.

* * *

Invisible (as usual) and low to the ground, Imoen crept along, trying not to stir up the dust or disturb anything that might go _clack_. This place was the weirdest chamber they'd yet ventured through, and it was no wonder that the knights hadn't been able to find words to describe it. Most of it was a jagged path of baked and blasted earth, curving its way through open darkness, narrow in places (that the inhabitants had marked with bones, all lined up like guide rails), and wide in others.

As she moved it occurred to Imoen that this place might have once been a cliffside on some alien world, ripped off the face of its mountain and hung up here by Lavok, to add to his menagerie.

Well, now wasn't the time for speculation. The important thing was to avoid the edge of the cliff, and ease on up to the camp, nice and silent but not _too_ slow. She'd a warparty creeping along behind her, after all.

Scouting. Invisible. Silent. Ready to send the signal to the rest of the group. Yup. This was all familiar territory, even in a totally alien place. The first stretch of the cliff-face was empty (though there were signs that there'd been some sort of battle here earlier: lots of scorch marks and bloodstains in the sand), and there only seemed to be one lookout on duty up ahead, sitting cross-legged atop a rock near a chokepoint.

The halfling man wasn't even looking in Imoen's direction or facing the chokepoint, neither. Rather, he just seemed to be staring off into the blackness. The fellow appeared to be quite elderly; gaunt and half-starved, too. He was clad in bones and strips of hide, with a bone-spiked club leaning against his rock.

Imoen watched him closely as she eased on across the bridge, then up for a better view of the camp. Through it all, the lookout never moved. Barely seemed like he was even breathing.

The rest of the camp was a bit more active. Perhaps ten halflings in total were sitting or lying around a smoldering firepit, which sat between a pair of long, tent-like structures. A little earlier, when Imoen and her pals had taken the first cautious steps into this place ( _'_ _Upmost caution!'_ the lady-knight had warned), they had discovered that the halflings were all huddled around their fire, feasting.

_'_ _A predator is most docile after it has glutted itself,'_ the lizard-lady had said. _'_ _Once they are done, it will be the best time to strike.'_

Looked like Second-Over had been right. This whole place appeared to be gorged and sleepy, lit only by the red glow of the cookfire. It illuminated dosing faces, along with a pair of long skewering-pikes that hung over the coals. The skewers had been used to impale a pair of headless humanoid bodies, their skin now cooked to a blackened red. Their limbs had been hacked away, along with a lot of choice cuts of meat, but there was enough left on the hollowed-out torsos to tell that one had belonged to a man, and the other to a woman.

Imoen tasted bile, and everything went tight and cold. Minsc and Viconia were lost somewhere in here. Her mind raced and her hand tightened at her bow. Would Viconia's skin turn that…shade, after cooking? Not something she wanted to speculate about —what a drow-turned-meat would look like— but she had to-

_No! Stop thinkin_ _' '_ _bout it._ She was over here in a camp full of monsters. Monsters that would eat her if they caught her- ( _No! Don_ _'_ _t think 'bout that either!_ )

Eyes on the ground and _not_ on the cookfire, Imoen forced herself to take a long, deep breath. She was here to catch these sleeping monsters by surprise, and signal the attack, and that was exactly what she was going to do. Right. Now.

_An excellent plan_ , a voice that was _not_ her own cut into her thoughts. It was dry as sand, and distinctly male. _Lots of planning,_ the voice went on, _in that fast little mind of yours. It spins like a dust-devil._ The voice seemed to smile. _Makes it easy for that mind to be spotted, despite your little trick with the light._

Imoen found herself facing away from the camp, her eyes locked with those of the old halfling lookout. He was still sitting on his perch, but now he faced her. He did not look nearly as old and frail as he had first appeared. Weathered, perhaps, but there was thick muscle on his bones. _We can be tricky too,_ the voice echoed in her head. _We can let you big ones think that you have caught us. Think that we are blind._ He gestured. _Here. Come. Come to old Mogadish._

Imoen realized that her legs were moving. She couldn't feel them, but she was drifting closer and closer to the little man on the rock. She pulled at the string of her bow, adjusting the arrow that she'd been carrying.

_No. No._ The voice was gentle. _Drop that now._ The arrow fell to the sand, winking into the visible range, and Imoen's arms slackened at her sides. She still managed to hold onto her bow, clenching. _Over here. To Mogadish_ _'_ _s hands._ His rock and his little face loomed closer. He was grinning. His fingers stretched out.

Imoen clinched her teeth. Helpless! She was being drawn along all helpless to the waiting hands of some mind-fucking-mage. The grinning little monster pulled her right along, eager to put her neck between his hands, and she had no weapon, and Minsc and Viconia were probably sitting in his belly right now and they'd go unavenged and she'd get eaten too and the she'd end up-

Though…thinking on it: no. She wouldn't give 'em the satisfaction of being able to eat her, at least, because when Bhaalspawn die they turn to flaming dust and rejoin-

_Still your whirlwind-mind and simply walk,_ the voice coaxed.

She didn't 'still' a thing. She kept right on thinking. _When Bhaalspawn die they go back to the source in the pit that their dad crawled out of, their bodies turning to sparks. That's the essence of Bhaal, I figure. Also, I figure that my hand is sitting right beside my bag of holding. Also, thinking a 'whirlwind' of thoughts will hopefully annoy you, you nosy little creep what's gone and stuck his voice inside my head without permission, so you're going to hear a whole lot of whirling, I tell you what…_

As the gears in her head turned and turned, her hand moved as well.

_No, you will not-_

His command slithered through her head at about the same moment that she yanked the bottle free of her bag, popped the cork with her thumb, and put the drink to her lips, gulping down hard and quick as she could. There'd been a fuzziness that'd crept in around her vision without her notice, but now the sweet/sour tang of the potion washed it all away and the world went clear and bright as diamond.

The old halfling was about four paces ahead, and no longer grinning. Glaring with murder in his eyes, more like it. Maybe he was projecting all sorts of murder through his mind-fucking-magic too, but Imoen couldn't hear or feel a bit of it, thanks to the _potion of clarity_. She snatched the next arrow from her quiver and strung it pointblank, loosing with no hesitation.

No dice. It flew a foot or two and then just _stopped_ in front of the halfling's open palm, hovering there. There was a stretch of time where the arrow hung in place and the old fellow glared, tilting his chin down, then the arrow fluttered aside and Imoen felt some unseen force _slam_ her in the chest and send her skidding and flopping backwards.

She landed on her rump and palms, but kept from being knocked down all the way. Still had air in her lungs, too. Quick as she could she shot back to her feet.

Over to her right the camp of feral halflings was stirring, and one _very_ muscular woman who'd been chewing on a limp arm tossed her meal aside, grabbed a club, and shot to her feet. Other little folk were rolling over to conveniently-placed weapons also, a lot faster than people in a 'stupor' would have. Likely they'd been faking.

_Well, phooey._ The element of surprise was evaporating right quick. The halflings were still clustered close, though. Still a chance to follow the plan, if Imoen acted _right_ now.

So she did, taking a chance and ignoring the old man for the time it took to snatch a glob of bat shit out of her component satchel, intone some words, and hurl said glob at the center of the camp. The glob took off, building fiery energy as it flew, growing in size and brightness until it smacked into the chest of the gal who'd been eating an arm.

_Whoosh!_ Flames blazed and billowed out, the whole of the feasting grounds going from crisp to extra-crispy.

Imoen whirled to face the old halfling, only to watch as a blast of lightning caught the bastard in the side and knocked him off his perch, followed in less than a blink by an angry swarm of arcane bolts. Seemed that Imoen's comrades had noticed the commotion up on the ridge and started moving in like they were supposed to. Good on them.

Cries of pain and fury drew her attention next, and she spun 'round to see a little figure emerge from the flames, a spiked club in hand and striding quicker than those short legs should allow, right in Imoen's direction. The little beasty was on her in the space of a breath, but as the club swung in Imoen managed to activate her ring and wink out of sight, springing to the side in the same instant.

The club struck dirt, the halfling scuttled by, and then she skidded and tried a wider swing. The janky spikes came within a _hairbreadth_ of cutting Imoen across the chest, but then she was clear, hopping aside as more singed and furious halflings came charging by. Smoke wafted off their bodies, and some still had embers in their hair.

Steel clinked and clanged from the other direction now, as the knights mounted the rise and stabbed forward with their swords and halberds, followed just a beat later by the pair of lizardfolk. Lots of noise on the battlefield now: more than enough to mask the whisper of Imoen's short sword as she drew it.

Now, she figured, she just needed to find the best spot to stab. She started searching, skipping away from all the sweeping weapons, invisible (as usual).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lizardfolk?" some readers are probably asking. "What?"
> 
> There's a random room in the Planar Sphere dungeon that looks very high tech/sci fi like, where you encounter four lizard men. In the game they're just pushovers that attack you, but for some weird reason I just wanted to expand their role a bit and give them some character.


	12. Savagery

_"A lycanthrope's greatest asset is not its beastly powers. Rather, it is the human mind that guides them."_ –Anonymous, _Bestiary of Creatures Strange and Wonderful_

* * *

Despite being cornered and out-played, the halflings had put up one _hell_ of a fight. By the time the last of the little buggers stopped twitching Imoen was completely out of breath, out of spells, and sore all over. She was still alive, though. Lucky, that.

Real lucky, she realized, as she looked over and saw the condition that the knights were in. Two of 'em were battered and bleeding, and the other lay flat in the dirt, not moving at all. When Imoen hobbled closer to the prone body it became clear that the fellow wouldn't be getting up again, what with his helmet caved in and his head twisted all around.

Onvo was the big guy's name. "Poor sod," Imoen muttered.

"He comported himself with honor," the lizard-man put in. He was bleeding from a few shallow cuts, but he'd fared well otherwise. It seemed that the crystals that he wore granted him some kind of magical protection. They'd glowed a lot during the fight, at least.

His lizard-lady muttered something in her own language, and the mated pair shared a look that Imoen couldn't read. Maybe they were disagreeing on something? Hard to tell. After that, the lizard-lady spoke to everyone: "We should secure this place. We must be sure that there are no more pests lurking about."

"Yup," Imoen agreed. "Let's search the camp." They regrouped, and got to work.

It came as a relief, sometime later, when they uncovered a pair of gray, formless robes among the prizes that the halflings kept, along with bags containing spellbooks and reagents. Was pretty obvious that the pair of bodies on the fire-pit had belonged to two of the Cowled Wizards, rather than Minsc and Viconia.

_Urm_. Relief got tempered a bit by disgust, though, when the pair of lizardfolk took a cue from the halflings and just flat-out started eating some of their kills, all raw and chewy-like. Imoen and the knights ended up putting their backs to the sight to wait things out, and they all winced every time there was a slurping or crunching sound.

The price you pay for allying yourself with people-eating monsters, Imoen supposed.

"You can hardly blame them," Baeloth said. "They haven't eaten for six cycles, after all. Whatever a 'cycle' is."

Kirian chuckled. "What's that old saying? 'You can't call yourself an adventurer until you've fallen asleep in a ditch after you've eaten something that was trying to eat you an hour earlier.' Of course, I'd rather wait 'till we're attacked by a bear or something like that, before I make dinner."

"Don't have much of an appetite, myself," Imoen muttered. She looked over to the knights, and switched languages. "We'll leave this place as soon as we've rested a bit. How uh…how should we treat Onvo's remains?"

The lady-knight grimaced. "We will perform the rites for him here. A proper burial. While there are still some of us left to bury him. It will not take long."

"Hopefully this was the worst that this place can throw at us."

"I wouldn't count on that," Baeloth said. He was obnoxiously amused as ever: his default state. "You recall that encounter earlier, with the master of this maze?"

"Yeah..."

"You sensed his power, no? Power, and strangeness. He was definitely a creature of another plane."

"Lotta strangeness, that's fer sure."

"After some pondering, I've concluded that the plane he must have been touched by was a level of The Abyss. He was quite…demonic, for want of a better word. Reminds me of the tales of elder sun elves, in the days of Old Arcorar. You see, they sought to fuse their blood and bodies with abyssal forces in pursuit of power and immortality."

"Well, isn't that lovely."

"Isn't it, though? If you thought cannibal halflings a horror, well, they're likely nothing compared to what The Abyss might have in store for us!"

Imoen cringed and looked over to Reyna, grateful for the hundredth time that the knights couldn't actually understand a word that Baeloth said.

* * *

"You are speaking…" Delainy stopped herself, shaking her head. She recomposed her words. "You speak. You speak of your circle with…reverence? That is word?"

"It is," Cernd said.

They had set up camp long ago, and it was well past the time of deepening shadows and the rising of the crescent moon. The campfire had gone down to embers, and the other three had just retired to the tents, leaving Delainy with first watch.

"Yet I am not understanding all," she continued. "At first, I was thinking of your circle like a pack. A family. It does not seem so, though."

"No." The druid thought a moment. "There is distance and differences between most of nature's students. We all find separate ways to live with the wilds. Although…there are some within the circles who train together at a young age." He chuckled. "Some of us grow up a bit like a litter of young. You and your brother were like pups to your wise woman, correct?"

"We were."

"It was much that way for me, walking in the footsteps of a wise teacher named Gragus. That was only my first apprenticeship, though. Other teachers came later. Some were trees. Others, beasts. We who seek to serve do much wandering. It is…too solitary a life to form a family."

"Then what are the circles even being for?"

"For conferring. For sharing knowledge, and wisdom. If, in the sharing, it is found that something threatens the balance and the land, well, _then_ the leaders may decide that action is called for. Such action must always be tempered, though, lest we upset the balance." He looked off. "There are some who would prefer to lead their circles as the strongest lion would lead his pride. I believe such notions are wrong-headed. We are keepers of the balance, not animals. We serve _all_ of nature, and should take lesson from the whole of it. From the winds, the waters, the plants, and the soil. Not just from the beasts."

Turning, he gave Delainy a serious look. She felt she should say something. "I think I understand." She wavered, though, and her eyes turned to the embers in the cookfire. 'Balance' had never been a word Ludil had taught or preached, though she supposed that she and her brother had worked towards it in some capacity. They had warned the men not to overfish the shoals. They had replanted roots. They had coaxed the elements to nourish the clan's gardens.

"I fear," Cernd said, "that one of the wrong-headed sort is leading the circle here. And I will have to confront her, with the ferocity of a bear and a heart of stone."

"Confront? You will be killing her?"

"Leadership of a circle is contested by combat. In that way, we are much like your pack."

Delainy nodded, looking over at the tents where the pack-leader slept. "The black-haired female is my leader, because she killed the old Gan." There was more to it, of course. The black-haired female had proved a good friend. She had mated with Delainy's brother, too, and been kind to the foolish boy. That counted for a lot. But slaying the Gan had codified things. Made their relationship clear and absolute. Ashura was the leader, now.

"It may not come to…such a contest," Cernd added. "Sometimes words of wisdom prevail." He stood. "I should retire now, so that I have strength for the next cycle."

Delainy rose as well, straightening her staff. "Yes. Thank you for the talking. I will begin my watch."

Cernd smiled. "Ask more questions tomorrow. I will answer." Then he turned, walking towards the brush and the shadows. It was his custom to sleep beneath the stars when the weather permitted, using his cloak for a blanket.

Such a wondrous cloak, too: woven from leaves of a size that Delainy had never before seen, and somehow preserved in a lustrous green. Cernd had claimed that the trees of The High Forest themselves had 'given' him the garment, when he had grown cold during a long period of meditation.

A metaphor. Delainy doubted that trees had actually woven the cloak. Still, there was an appeal to the thought that nature itself had gifts to give and lessons to impart. She welcomed any help, having been so out of her depth of late.

Perhaps she was finding her level now, though. A forest like this seemed an idyllic home for her pack, if they could make the sea journey.

Leaning on her staff, she surveyed the trees. This place was much like her island, yet so much greater in scope and scale.

And there was game! A simple breath drew in the scent of countless creatures; so many crawling, bounding beasts! Squirrels, woodchucks, rabbits, tiny vermin, scurrying insects, the crisp feathers of night birds, and even some deer, off in the distance; she could smell them all!

It had been unnerving, of course, when she'd been attacked by the agitated beasts on the road, but here in the depths of the wood all was calm. 'In balance,' Cernd would say.

The wind shifted, and something new tickled Delainy's nose. Her brow furrowed. Gone in an instant, but something had been out of place. Hackles raised now, she turned, then began to walk the periphery of the camp. She was supposed to be guarding, after all.

The forest was silent. The moon cast faint shadows and lit very little. She continued to sniff, but the air mostly smelled of damp and rot. Leaves and wood. Dirt and mud. By the time she'd walked the full circuit of the clearing she was starting to think that she'd imagined the smell. Or it had blown in from very far away. That happens, sometimes…

No! She smelled it again, and whirled, facing a thick stand of bushes. Men! She definitely smelled men! Her palm shot forward and she drew in a breath, preparing to call upon the power of her god.

A hand clamped against her mouth before she got the first word out, and something sharp stung her neck. She cried against the stranger's palm, starting to twist, but the stinging sensation intensified and a voice hissed right in her ear: "No! Don't you even think of twitching, girlie, or I'll open up your pretty throat!"

Shock and bewilderment. She went very, very still. Her heart thundered in her ears, and memories of teeth at her neck flickered by: of the times when Kaishas or one of the other big females had forced her to bow in defeat.

"Good," the voice in her ear whispered. "Just follow my cues, and we'll get through this. We don't want to hurt you. We just want your belongings.

Out in front, figures were creeping from the bushes. All smelled like men, and they carried bows, arrows, and axes.

"Now," the hissing man continued, "you and I are going to turn around, nice and slow." He guided her until she faced the camp. Two of the men eased in beside her, all eyes on the tents.

A light flared to life, then, forcing Delainy to squint and casting long shadows, and she felt the man who held her startle. There was another sting at her neck. She fought to keep from quaking.

The man with the red robes had crawled out from his tent, scowling as always, and the conjured light bobbed and moved to accommodate his motions. The pack-leader was up as well, rising from a crouch and gripping both her swords. She had slept in her armor. Durlyle followed close behind her.

"My, my," the voice at Delainy's ear said. "Aren't you a bunch of light sleepers? All up and armed, like you smelled the bandits in yer midst. Suppose we should expect that from a heavily-armed band of mercenaries. That's the reason that we watched you close, and took things cautious-like. Also the reason we picked this one…" He gave Delainy a shake. "…to take hostage. She looked like the weakest link. Though I'm guessing you don't want anything bad to happen to her?"

Durlyle shook his head. "We do not."

"Good. Good. Been leans times out on The Tradeway, what with the wild beasts trying to eat everyone. Ruined our business for the season, and forced us into these backwoods. But it looks like our luck's turned around. I'm assuming you folks know the order of business here? First you drop your weapons and raise your hands, then we search your valuables, then we let you and this girl all walk out of here with your lives. What do you say?"

A silent moment went by, the fierce glare never leaving the pack-leader's face. When she finally spoke, her voice was cold and even. "Delainy," she said. " _Et ferrum non manestal_."

Words spoken in the tongue of Delainy's island-home. Roughly translated, they meant: _'His blade is not moon-metal.'_

_Oh?_ Delainy's eyes widened. _Oh!_

The grip on her tightened and the hostage-taker shouted. "Don't you try to pull any…"

But the rest of his words were drowned out by Delainy's thundering pulse, along with the rustle of her sprouting fur and the ripping of her dress. Her vision blurred, then sharpened into black and silver. She again felt a stinging, against her collarbone, but it was just an annoyance now, like brambles when you push through them.

A wolf's hide is thick and tough, after all.

She spun and lashed with her forearm. It struck the man's middle. He was solid (armored), and the blow did not fell him. Instead he teetered and raised his knife in a warding motion.

She did not fear the blade now. With a full pounce she brought him down, teeth finding his unarmored neck and chewing through flesh and cartilage and bone. There was screaming. A few twists and shakes silenced it. She pushed up off her prey and looked about.

There was another man close by. He'd an ax in one hand and a shield in the other, but a leap and a yank of her claws tore them both aside. She roared in his face. Her brother swept in from behind and caught the back of the man's neck with his teeth. They both tore at the man until he stopped moving.

When she next looked up from the blood and ruin she found the clearing almost silent. No more shouts or clanging steel; just some crackling from a fire (Red-Robes liked to conjure those), and the faint panting of the pack-leader, who had her foot planted on a man's back and her longsword stuck through him. With a grunt the woman dislodged the blade. Delainy looked to her for the next signal.

Nearby, the brush rattled. They spun to face it, and out lumbered an _enormous_ form: a creature with the bulk and profile of a bear, though not quite. Instead of claws it brandished hooked and bloodstained talons, and rather than a snout it had a sharp bird's beak. Its eyes were wide and round, and its head was crowned with feathers. Blood matted its fur and face.

It looked strange, but the scent was familiar. That gave Delainy pause.

The pack-leader had gone into a crouch and crossed her swords, glaring at the bear-thing, but then the creature shook itself, splattering the nearby leaves with blood, and its fur and feathers flowed down to become Cernd's hair and leaf-cloak. "No more hunters surround us," he stated.

The pack leader relaxed. "Good. Nice job." She glanced around, eyes fixing on Delainy. "You too. 'The weakest link,' huh? You showed that bastard."

Calming, Delainy let her form go, and dim color returned to the night. The next thing she did was check the side of her neck. Cuts there, but they seemed shallow. Transforming had healed them a bit.

Her dress had not fared so well. She frowned down at the tatters.

The pack-leader noticed. "Eh. Better a torn dress than a torn throat. There's a whole bag full of extra clothes."

"My thanks," Delainy said, wiping some of the blood off her mouth with the back of her hand.

"We're going to end up making some tailors in Athkatla very rich. Better them than bandits, though." The pack-leader turned, surveying the mess they had made of the camp. "Speaking of. Let's see if these assholes were carrying anything of value."

* * *

They had to walk carefully for the next stretch of the hike, mud sloshing beneath their boots as they threated along the high points of the path. There were puddles and banks of leaf-rot everywhere, and ahead stretched wider spans of opaque water. The forest had given way to swamp.

Gnarled and hearty trees soaked their roots throughout the place, stretching up with twisted limbs that shaded the brown waters and the bright beds of lily pads. It was highsun now, and the dampness was cloying and oppressive. A chorus of bullfrogs chirped all around them.

"What idiocy possessed these druids," Edwin huffed as they walked, "when they built their meeting-place in a foul-smelling bog?"

"It is not a matter of building," Cernd explained. He was leading them between the puddles. "Just as the waters here find their level, so were the druids of old guided to this place. They found an abundant spring at the heart of the wet, low places. At its source, in a cavern beneath the rock, the circle meets to-"

"Oh? So they did not build anything? Instead, they chose to live in a cave? Fitting."

"A cave that houses life-giving spirits." Cernd gestured at the wetlands. "As you can see, this place thrives with overabundance, nourished by sacred waters."

"Bah! Nourishing leeches, frogs, crayfish, and mosquitoes. How majestic."

"Swamp trolls too," Durlyle put in, his tone glib. "They seem to thrive here."

"Yeah," Ashura grumbled, eyes on the waters and the stands of cattails. She's learned today that just a small amount of sludge and vegetation was enough to hide a troll ambush, and that the big bastards loved to come lunging out of the muck as soon as you got close. They'd been attacked three times so far. You'd think, considering the size of the things, that trolls wouldn't be able to hide, but they were thin and multi-joined. Could curl up in about any spot.

These had been Ashura's first encounters with trolls, and she wouldn't mind never seeing one again. Hacking into a limb, only to watch it straighten and heal up a moment later, was unnerving. Thankfully, Edwin's spells had cut the fights relatively short.

Having pet werewolves also helped. At this point Durlyle had given up on his fancy Amnish clothes, walking along in just his loincloth in case he had to transform again. Poor fellow. Much as Ashura liked to admire that square little backside of his, she didn't like watching him constantly having to swat mosquitoes. Looked pretty miserable.

"I've had quite enough of trolls," Edwin agreed. "(In more than a few ways,)" he went on, muttering. "(Another encounter, and I may grow dangerously short on fire spells. Perhaps if I improvise with some-)"

"Really?" Ashura cut in. "If you're getting low on fire, maybe we should stop and fortify. Let you rest up-"

"Absolutely not! I am not without my resources! Acidic magic will do just as well as fire. (Feh! That she would even doubt me! Not to mention: I have absolutely _no_ intention of camping in a swamp)."

"We near the grove," Cernd added. "Over difficult ground, but it is close." The path ahead seemed little more than a hump between two bodies of water. Past the spit of land, the ground widened, opening onto thick forest. "We will need to climb, perhaps. There are crags and boulders, surrounding the spring…" His voice trailed off.

A faint, splashing sound to their left —just a whisper in the water, really— had them all turning and reaching for their weapons. Ashura gripped Varscona's hilt, searching the water for ripples, or for the moldering yellow of a troll's hide. She did notice something, but it had more of a gray than yellow hue. Looked like a piece of driftwood.

There was another splashing sound, and then the driftwood vanished beneath the surface of the water. Teeth clenched, Ashura hissed to the others: "What was that?"

"A crocodile?" Edwin guessed.

Cernd watched the water a moment longer, then nodded. "Alligators live here. They are actually quite shy, provided you avoid swimming. They only hunt creatures in the water. If we stick to the path, we should go beyond their notice."

"That thing was noticing us," Durlyle disagreed. "I was feeling its eyes." He sniffed the air. "There are more. I think they…" He searched a moment, with eyes, ears, and nose. "Yes!" He pointed at a patch of reeds. "They watch us from there. A pack of the reptiles."

"They wouldn't form a pack," Cernd said. "Alligators are solitary hunters…" Realization dawned then, and he stiffened. "Ah. I see." Next, he planted his staff at the water's edge, standing tall and shouting. "Kyland? Is that you?!"

There was some rustling, followed by splashing sounds as dark forms slipped along beneath the water. Over in the foliage, beyond the land bridge, there more motion. Large, dark forms. Looked like land animals.

With a muffled splash the first creature that they'd spotted reappeared, right at the shore and a little up the path from where Ashura and Cernd stood. It crawled out of the muck and climbed the bank. An alligator, or at least it was for a moment. Next came a waver across its scales, and it shifted into the form of a mud-stained man, bent down on his hands and knees.

There were more splashes and squelching noises further down the path, where a pair of alligators crawled onto the land-bridge. One rose and became a woman, and the other remained a beast and took a position at her side. They were cutting off retreat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unusually short, but I'll try to publish the next one faster than usual. Urm. If I don't get washed away by this hurricane, that is.
> 
> The encounter with the hostage-taking bandits actually comes from the Jaheira romance, of all places. I was inspired to put it in here because I was watching a Let's Play video on YouTube of the Druid Grove quest, saw the encounter randomly happen, and thought: "What if it were a different druid who got held hostage? All sorts of hilarity might ensue!" Taking a werewolf for a hostage is a *very* bad idea, but also an understandable mistake to make.


	13. Proving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One problem with alternating between the planar sphere quest and the druid circle is that the planar sphere is just way more interesting. Naturey stuff really can't compete with Dark Sun halflings, knights from Dragonlance, and a field trip into The Abyss itself. Still, the druid circle quest has one major set piece that I've always liked: the arena fight. Lots of potential drama there.
> 
> Let's get to it!
> 
> Also, I always kind of worry if I'm overdoing things with the stylized (and somewhat melodramatic) language some of the characters use. Just seemed like druids would talk that way.

_"When putting on a fighting scene, never repeat the same move twice. It will bore the audience. Conversely, if you find yourself in an actual struggle for your life and come upon a particularly effective technique, it is wise to repeat the move as many times as needed."_ -Haer'Dalis of Sigil

* * *

The man who had just transformed rose and straightened. He was dressed in the hides of multiple reptiles: a snakeskin belt, an alligator vest, leggings adorned with scales, and more snakeskin for his boots. His beard dripped with swamp-water, and his head was bald. He faced Cernd. "You guessed right."

"Kyland." Cernd looked past the reptile-druid and over to the brush where two more men had appeared. One of them wore the dappled fur of a great cat, and his arms were thick with muscle. He carried a spiked club in one hand: hickory, decorated with a lot of ornate worls. The other fellow dressed in plain greens. "Pauden too. And Delok."

The pair nodded.

"A cold greeting you offer, for one who has been away so long."

"Such is nature," Kyland replied. "If you abandon your den for a season, it should come as no surprise to find that new beasts have moved in."

"Stronger beasts, perhaps," the man with the club added.

"(Gods)," Edwin grumbled. "(Do they _all_ speak in these tedious metaphors?)"

"I wish to meet these 'stronger beasts' for myself," Cernd said.

"We assumed as much," Kyland said. "We will escort you to the grove. It is your right to petition our Great Druid, though she will be less…welcoming than we." He glared past Cernd. "And these outsiders are not welcome at all. They'd best turn around."

Ashura clinched her teeth and reached for her sword, but it was Delainy who stepped forward first. "The pack must not be splitting!" she insisted, stamping her staff against the mud. "We move as he moves. Protecting."

Kyland gave her a curious look. "You do?"

"It is the way of The Beastlord. The pack is not to be broken!"

"Hm?" He seemed thoughtful. "You venerate Malar? Run in the hunts?"

" _All_ our people are hunters," Durlyle put in. He pointed at his sister. "She is our guide. She speaks with spirits. She calls the game to us."

"I sense truth here. Well, bless your fangs and talons, then. You can-"

"They are still outsiders!" the man with the club snapped.

"This girl and boy have as much right to the grove and its spirits as we do," one of the other druids —the man in greens— retorted. "It is not our property. And it is our way to tolerate visitors, so long as safe conduct is practiced."

Kyland nodded, then gestured. "All of you can come, then. But know that we will keeping a close eye. On the mage, especially." He glared at Edwin. "Begin to chant a spell, and you will be swarmed by clouds of wasps and biting flies."

"Yes, yes," Edwin said with a roll of his eyes. "I understand the concept of good conduct among hosts, so long as you savages understand the concept of guest rights." He stepped forward.

They all started walking, and once the eyes were off of him Edwin looked over at Ashura. Strangely, he didn't seem annoyed. Almost…amused? Seemed he didn't take the threat seriously.

* * *

A weather-beaten henge marked the entrance to the spring, and the druids led the way: between the standing stones and then into the mouth of the cave. It was not particularly dim within, thanks to ambient sunbeams that filtered down through the tunnels. Moss, lichen, and some sort of scummy fungus covered the walls, coloring the place with various shades of green and white.

"This is sacred ground," the druid in green said as they went. ( _Pauden?_ That seemed to have been what Cernd had called him). "No violence will be tolerated, and it is best for those who are not part of our hierarchy to remain silent."

Ashura shrugged. Seemed this was Cernd's party, anyway. Hells, maybe he'd end up resolving the whole mess, and she wouldn't have to lift a finger.

A trickle echoed through the tunnels, and soon they came upon a larger cavern that was bisected by a wide and shallow stream. As they neared the water, Kyland halted and shot a glare over his shoulder. "Do not sully the waters with your boots, outsiders." Removing his own shoes, he walked forward. Cernd followed him.

When Ashura got to the edge, she paused. There were plenty of rocks. Easy enough to hop from one to the next, so that's what she did, all the way across.

Meanwhile, Edwin quietly chanted something, and then his feet rose off the cavern floor, allowing him to stride along on the air. That earned him a lot of glares, but the druids didn't break out any insect plagues. Not yet, at least.

Beyond the stream lay the opening to another, larger cave, the far end ringed by man-made pillars, and between them rose a short ramp and a dais bearing a granite throne. There were several druids here, making up what looked like a small court, and upon the throne lounged a figure that looked a bit too small for it. The girl's feet were bare, resting against a _massive_ red-brown wolf.

Ashura's eyes widened a bit when she got a good look at the druidic leader's face. Hadn't expected to see someone familiar here.

The girl was dressed in green leathers that had seen a lot of repair and re-stitching, with thin, lanky forearms that stuck out of her abbreviated sleeves. She couldn't have been older than twenty, though there was a certain hardness to her features. Weather-beaten, certainly. Her thick, brown hair was bowl-cut in the front and billowing in the back, and there was a black tattoo covering her left eye and most of her cheek.

As Ashura recalled, someone (Coran? Or maybe it had been Imoen) had once asked about the tattoo, and been told that it was the marking of The Black Raven Uthgardt Clan. It _kind_ of looked like the head and beak of a raven, though if she hadn't been told that name Ashura would have just assumed it was a smudge.

"Faldorn," Ashura said by way of greeting. "Guess you've been doing some traveling too."

"I go where The Oak Father and The Great Mother call me," the girl stated, her voice serene as ever. She cocked her head. "We last met in The Cloakwood, no? Nature had called me there to right a great wrong, where men had hollowed out the forest and defiled it. After that, I was called to punish more despoilers, down here in these warm lands."

Cernd glanced over at Ashura. "You know her, then?" Sounded like he wanted any information she could give.

"Eh," Ashura grunted, thinking. "We traveled together. Fought mutual foes. Can't say that I knew her well. She was in one animal form or another most of the time."

"Nonetheless," Faldorn said, climbing to her feet, "I appreciated your help, drowning that mine." She made an encompassing gesture. "I would invite you to another alliance. Allow me to punish the defilers of these woods. The circumstances are the same."

"We were sent here to stop the animal attacks," Ashura stated flat.

"I suspected as much. And trust me, the attacks _will_ end." Faldorn grinned, showing off pearly teeth. "They will end when the leaves change, and the seasons turn. Provided the fools do nothing further to provoke nature's wrath."

"Don't think our employers have that kind of patience."

"Nor does The Grand Druid," Cernd added. "Your actions here do not preserve the balance. You have caused the deaths of scores of travelers and townsfolks, and drawn the innocent creatures of this land out of their natural place, to act as your soldiers-"

"To act as instruments of Oakfather's wrath!" Faldorn snapped, cutting him off. "The people of the trading town did what they did because they did not fear the wilds! We have made them _fear_ again."

"They have been shown force, and they will respond in kind. You should know how the world of men works. You're trying to start a war, and we cannot hope to win a-"

"Cannot? Cannot!" There was a downright wicked glint in Faldorn's eyes now. "Perhaps we should test what I _cannot_ do?" Those gleaming eyes focused on Ashura. "You work as mercenary rabble now, I see. The city-dwelling fools sent you."

Ashura's hand inched towards _Varscona's_ hilt. "Yeah. They did."

"To stop the source of their…trouble with the animals? That would be how the fools would put it." Faldorn tapped her chest, and perhaps it was a trick of the light, but it seemed her fingernails had grown longer. Claw-like. "Well _I_ am its source. Right here before you." Her challenge was spoken through clenched teeth —through a feral grin— and those teeth grew sharper with every word. There was a pressure in the air as well. Too muggy. Too heavy.

"Faldorn!" one of the druids interrupted. "This is a place of peace!"

Glancing at him, the girl snarled, showing off every fang. "And it will remain so, until _she_ draws her swords." Back to Ashura. "Those swords will not harm me, though. I have made a pact with the spirits of the spring. They will sustain and heal me, should I be cut." She looked to Edwin now. "And fire will not burn me, so long as the waters flow."

Cernd gasped. "I had thought I sensed…by The Oakfather! What have you done?!"

"Just what I said."

"I can hear the spirits cry! You drain them of their strength!"

"Bah!" Faldorn made a dismissive gesture. "The spirits will endure and survive, as will I in the struggle ahead. _That_ is balance. _Not_ simpering in a cave, debating and meditating while the loggers destroy our charges. Perhaps you would think different if you had seen the swath of destruction that the halfling and his men cut through this wood. They slew bears and great cats for sport, and left them to rot! They toppled trees that had seen millennia pass, without a care!"

"Nothing can justify leeching the power of The Lifegivers." Cernd took a step forward. "I was sent here to see if this circle has turned from our ways, and by all that lives and crawls I declare that you _have._ It will not stand. I invoke the rites of ascension. I challenge you in the proving ground!"

Faldorn's kept grinning. "And I accept. Readily." Now she stepped forward, and Ashura gripped her sword tight, knees bent and ready.

Oddly, though, the pressure actually seemed to abate.

"I have heard of you," Faldorn went on, speaking to Cernd. "The man with the leafcloak. And the Staff of the High Forest." She neared them now. "You were a student of Gragus, were you not?"

"He taught me much."

Now Faldorn stood just a stride or two from Cernd, continuing to examine him. She was perhaps a head-and-a-half shorter than he, and while he stood straight and still as a tree, she bent and cocked her head this way and that, always in motion. "The old man died quickly in the proving pit, when I took this circle. His body fed the creatures of the marsh that night. Yours will, too."

Cernd had no reply to that; he just stood there with a face of stone, and then Faldorn marched forward and past him. Her pet wolf padded along behind her, then Cernd turned and followed too, heading for the stream.

The other druids went next, and Pauden gestured for Ashura and her people to follow. "You may watch the proving," he said.

"They are to fight?" Delainy asked.

"Yes. It is how we determine advancement and leadership."

Edwin chuckled. "So, you are constantly murdering each other for status? I suppose this place is a bit like Thay in _one_ regard, then."

Pauden gave him a sour look. "Proving is usually not a bloody matter. But Faldorn has made it so."

They headed down a branch and into a wide and vaulted cavern, with a theatrical pit set in the center that must have been at least fifteen paces across. Stones marked the outside of the ring, decorated with worling patterns and slanting downward, and an indirect skylight kept the place lit.

Seemed like a well-displayed arena. Shar-Teel would like it here.

As he neared the pit, Cernd unceremoniously tossed his staff aside, then shed his cloak, while Faldorn marched over towards an alcove, peeling her leathers away. That had Ashura and Edwin raising their eyebrows, and Edwin whispered: "(Perhaps this will be a _very_ interesting show)." Once the combatants were down to their underclothes, though, some attendant druids whisked them over to separate alcoves.

Pauden explained. "The trial is to be undertaken without outside assistance. No allies, and no equipment that would give either side an advantage. All in balance, and as nature would will. They will be given wooden staves, the simplest of garb, and anointments from the attendant priests. Not entirely necessary, but that is how we conduct the provings here."

Another druid scoffed. "It is done that way so that there is a chance for heads to cool." She let out a little snort. "With Faldorn, there is no hope of that."

"She has a will," the druid with the spiked club said. "A will that we lacked before." Other druids nodded along, while some looked off. Obviously a lot of discord here.

Cernd was the first to emerge from behind one of the stones, and Faldorn was out a moment later. Apparently the 'simplest of garb' meant threadbare tunics, and the 'anointment' came in the form of green face paint, done in a striped pattern that reminded Ashura of claw-marks. The combatants both held wooden quarterstaffs, keeping their distance as they ambled over to separate sides of the arena's edge.

Pauden slid up behind Cernd. "Brother," he hissed. "Beware. She is not to be underestimated. You know that she slew Gragus, and she did it because-"

"Silence!" Faldorn shouted, tapping her staff against the edge of the ring. "There is to be _no_ outside assistance. By deeds, or words."

"Indeed," Cernd agreed. He spoke to Faldorn. "I sense that you have let go of the spirits of the spring." His eyes shifted to the great wolf that still trailed the girl. "And what of your friend there?"

Faldorn looked. "Ah. How easy it is to forget my shadow." She barked out a word in a tongue that Ashura didn't know, and the wolf bowed its head, turned, and slunk out of the cavern. "There. My pets will not interfere in this." All her teeth showed again. "I need them not." With that, she leapt, dropping the six or so feet down onto the dirt of the inner circle, as springy as a cat. Soon as she was down there, she straightened and puffed her chest out. "I enter this proving ground as The Great druid of this circle, and I shall leave the same way!"

Cernd did not say a word. He just dropped down, straightened himself at the bottom, and hoisted his staff.

After that the onlookers hastened to edges of the ring, leaning over to watch. Maybe this was supposed to be some sacred rite, but to Ashura's eyes it looked about like any other bloodsport. Reminded her a bit of the impromptu dueling circles that Shar-Teel would enter after insulting some pirate or another, in the taverns back at Baldur's Gate.

"This is not good," Delainy muttered in her native tongue. "That woman. She speaks of an Oakfather, and a Great Mother, but she is a creature of The Beastlord. I can smell it."

"So?" Ashura asked.

"She is a predator. Cernd is not."

Above the fighting pit, Pauden held up his hands. "The challenge has been made, to determine which of us is stronger. Which is worthy to guide this circle. Unadorned, and unaided by all but their faith in nature, they shall prove themselves!"

His hands dropped, and the fight commenced.

Both combatants opened with invocations to their gods, and a great fire bloomed between Cernd's hands, only to be snuffed out when Faldorn proved quicker and blasted him with a gale of wind. The force threw Cernd back against the wall of the pit, and his opponent followed up with a second spell. There was a grinding noise, and a forest of spikes began to sprout from the wall.

Cernd leapt away from them just in time, dashing headlong and tossing his staff aside. He extended his fingers and they became claws, his tunic wavering and flowing into black fur. A werewolf now, he bared his teeth and barreled towards his foe.

Her form flickered too, and she grew tall and wide, her head becoming that of a bear while her body remained somewhat humanoid. She caught Cernd by the forearms, spinning and tossing the smaller creature away.

Werebear beats werewolf. _Bloody clever_.

Cernd managed to keep from bashing his snout against the far wall, spinning as quick as he could. "The fool," one of the druids hissed, close to Ashura. "He'd no idea that she has mastered as many forms as he!"

Again, Cernd's form wavered and swam, growing in size. Shaggy, round, and a bit taller than Faldorn now, he let out an ear-splitting screech before lumbering forward and brandishing a fresh set of claws. ' _Owlbear_ ' had always seemed like a silly term to Ashura, but actually seeing this thing —with the bulk and muscles of a bear paired with a razor-sharp beak and twenty talons that were as long and sharp as daggers— had her reconsidering. Twas a bloody terrifying creature, actually.

Dropping on all fours, the owlbear launched itself at Faldorn, talons sweeping, but they met only air as the werebear wavered into something flexible and slick, weaving aside. Now Faldorn was a giant snake, with both the mass and coils of a constrictor and the fangs of a viper.

The snake slithered aside, then lunged past another swipe of the owlbear's talons, twisting to wrap around its foe's arms and crush them to its sides. In no time at all it had corkscrewed around and risen up, venom dripping from its fangs as it let out another hiss…

…and then it struck, quick as a cobra, sinking those fangs into the side of the other creature's neck. The owlbear let out a grating squawk, thrashing and writhing, and they both tumbled over, a blur of motion.

There was another flowing shimmer, and then something fluttered out from between the serpent's coils. Some sort of bird, looked like. It bobbed through the air, flapped close to the spikes at the far wall of the ring, then dropped to the arena's floor, hobbling and off-balance. Expanding, it became a man once again.

Cernd propped himself up, eyes closed and pained. There were still fang-marks on his shoulder, and he took in one raspy breath after another as he tried to intone a healing prayer. Likely he was trying to rid himself of the venom.

He never got the chance. Before the first word came out, Faldorn had slithered over, flowed back into human form, snatched up one of the quarterstaffs, and clubbed him in the side of the head.

"No!" Delainy hissed, leaning far over the lip of the arena.

Faldorn followed through with another blow, then another, and another. Soon the staff was smeared with blood and long tufts of hair.

"No!" Delainy shouted again, and now she was climbing up. Without hesitation she stepped off and dropped into the pit.

"Sister!" Durlyle shouted after. "What are you doing?!"

Down below, Faldorn turned and faced the new arrival, smirking. "Is this a challenge?"

"It is!" Delainy roared. "I challenge you! I invoke your rites! We will fight!"

"It is not permitted!" one of the druids cut in. "This girl has not proven herself, at any rank!"

The wicked look remained on Faldorn's face. A predatory smile. "Ah, but didn't I say that your 'hierarchy' means nothing to me, when I challenged your last fool-leader?" She faced Delainy. "There is only nature's law. Survival of the strongest." A tap to her chest. "All may challenge me. You are bold, girl. Or perhaps you think yourself wise? Attacking after I've spent some power to kill this man?" She snorted. "But I am barely winded, and I sense that your connection to nature is weak and tenuous. You will be no _challenge_."

"I will slay you!" Delainy growled.

"She has not been searched!" another druid shouted. "This could be some trick!"

Delainy shot the man a glare. "I carry no adornments." She tore at the straps of her dress, dropping it to the floor. Stripped to her loincloth, she whirled and faced her foe again. "I need nothing to defeat you!"

_It's kind of pointless giving her clothes in the first place, isn't it?_

Faldorn laughed. "Very well then." She raised her bloodstained staff. "We need no tedious pronouncements. Here! If you are worthy of leadership, come and take it!"

Durlyle was pulling at his hair. "Sister…" he whispered. "What are you _doing?_ "

Ashura had to agree.

But Delainy had already begun the fight. She clapped her hands together, light flickering between her palms as she spoke her native tongue. " _Beastlord! Grand me the strength of the bear!_ "

Light welled up and bolstered Delainy's muscles, but as it did Faldorn brought down an invocation of her own. The dark recesses above the pit came to life, wings rattling and fluttering. A swarm of bats. They spiraled down at Delainy, buffeting and biting and forcing the girl to shield herself with her arms.

"Sister…" Durlyle repeated, eyes wide and hands clenched tight.

The fluttering intensified, and then a brown and shaggy form burst out of the cloud. No more spells. Delainy had transformed into a roaring, raging beast. She leapt for Faldorn, who twisted backwards, laughing.

A sinuous ripple, and then Faldorn had changed as well. The giant snake was back, arching up and hissing. It lashed out with its tail, which curled around the werewolf's legs. Delainy managed a couple of claw-slashes, ripping off some scales, but then the snake spun and enveloped her, crushing her arms to her trunk and forcing out a yelp.

Ashura had drawn _Varscona_ by then, leaning over the lip of the fighting pit. _Fuck this._ If they had to kill all of these druids they would-

A hand grasped the back of her arm. Wouldn't have felt it through the armor, but it shook and rattled the chainmail. She glanced back and met Edwin's eyes.

He shook his head and hissed: "Don't. Look! Watch the fangs!"

Curious, she turned back to the arena. The giant snake was striking.

Now, a werewolf's hide is supernaturally tough, but it's not impenetrable. Put sufficient force into the blow, and you can pierce it without resorting to silver or enchantments. A ballista bolt would probably do the job. Maybe a swing from a giant. The claws of wolfweres had worked pretty well too, on the island.

But the serpent's fangs weren't up to the job. They snapped, and that snap echoed through the cavern. ' _Et ferrum non manestal._ '

The fangs fell from the creature's mouth, one striking the floor while the other rolled down the its coils. Those coils loosened too, and at the same time Delainy's form blurred. Human now, she scrambled out, vaulted, and managed to snatch up the fang and stab it into the snake's side.

Ashura's fist pounded the railing stone, and she found herself barking out a laugh. "Ha!"

With a flutter the snake writhed away, shrinking and then congealing back into human form. Blood dribbled down Faldorn's chin, and there was a puncture hole at her ribs. She placed a hand on that wound, stumbling along.

Maybe she was muttering a healing prayer through her broken teeth. Didn't matter, though. In an instant Delainy had become a beast again, springing and flattening her foe to the ground as teeth tore and claws dug in. Bits of ragged, bloody cloth flew about, littering the cavern.

Gasps went up from the audience, and people began to turn away. Ashura couldn't help but watch, though, as the ribs got exposed and the innards were ripped out; as the wolf buried its muzzle into the chest of its convulsing prey.

_I did that, didn't I? I bit Kaishas Gan's heart out and ate it._ Faldorn kept twitching and shuddering through most of it, the light only leaving her eyes after Delainy had thrown her head back to howl in triumph.

Eventually, the werewolf disengaged. She stood, stepped back, and shrank down to human form, caked in blood and glaring up at the audience. "The challenge is met!"

"You cheated!" the man with the club shouted as he stepped up onto the ledge. "You defiled our rites!"

"I did not! The beast blood is mine to wield!"

The man with the club didn't see it that way. He dropped to the arena's floor, menacing with his weapon and stomping forward.

Two steps, and then Delainy had extended her hands and shouted: " _Beastlord, still my prey!_ "

Her spell conjured up ghostly vines, and in a blink they had slithered out and wrapped around the man's forearms, yanking him back and pressing him against the spiked wall. He screamed, and in the same instant Delainy blurred forward: looming, snarling, and then slashing again and again with her claws. The man's screams ended pretty quickly, and then the werewolf stepped back, shrinking, transforming, and waving a hand to dismiss the vines.

The man's corpse dropped, face-first, onto the dirt, and Delainy looked up once more. "Are there any _other_ challengers?"

No one else stepped forward.


	14. Heroing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Lavok is a proper villain and Valygar is a proper badass

_"After each journey into the planes Lavok Corthala returned with greater power, but left more and more of his humanity behind."_ \- Ortin Blaer, _The Great Families of Athkatla: A History_

* * *

"You know what this thing is?" Imoen asked.

"Hmm," Baeloth purred to himself, musing and running a finger down the edge of the great glass tank. It was open and empty, the floor in front damp where the liquid inside had spilled out. "Perhaps." He started poking at the brass tubes and knobs at the base of the device. "Quite a marvelous machine."

"Well?"

"If I'm not mistaken (and I never am), this machine is used to animate magical constructs. You feed the parts of the golem into these slots, here, then you pump the proper energies in, and then the golem fuses and the tank opens up."

He leaned back, grinning at the whole of it. "Oh, what a sight it must have been when this thing was activated! The water is used as a coolant, so there would have been a delightfully dramatic wreath of steam billowing out with the golem, while it took its first gigantic steps into the world!" He pointed down at the tilework. "Scuffed up the floor when it did. Quite the heavy newborn."

"That would explain the dents in the doorway too," Kirian put in, pointing over her shoulder. The hatch at the other side of the laboratory was wide open and badly bent.

"Mmm hmm!" Baeloth rubbed his hands together. "It must have been a titanic golem, built from terrifically tough materials!" Caught up in the thought of it, he drifted towards the doorway, head craning and peering ahead.

"We maybe ought to go in the opposite direction…" Imoen mused. "You know, run away from something so terrifically and terrifyingly tough?"

"Mayyybe," Baeloth cooed, though he kept walking, edging up to the doorframe and then leaning against it to peek around. "Golems are irritating things. Notoriously resistant to magic. Of course, that makes them perfect battering rams to use against magical creatures." He pointed at something past the door. "Look!"

Imoen crept in beside him. A hallway stretched ahead, with an open hatch at the far end. Limp, snaky bodies were splayed out just beyond, and the tip of an orange tail hung over the doorsill.

"The golem has blazed a path for us!"

"Seems so." Taking things real cautious-like, Imoen shimmied on through the hatch and crept down the tunnel. Sure enough, it looked like the snake-things had been smashed by something _big._

She got close and examined the remains. One was blue-white, and the other was a dull orange. Both had snakish lower-halves, and upper portions that seemed vaguely humanoid, though very reptilian. Smoke seeped out through the orange creature's wounds, and the injuries on the blue-white thing resembled…crushed ice? All brittle and crystalline.

These were elemental critters, if Imoen remembered her bestiary lore correctly. A fire and a frost salamander. Further in there were some little, impish bodies that had been smashed like bugs. Dead mephits.

The little corpses were arrayed around a big, glowing orb that hovered and spun in the center of the chamber. Large runes marked the four cardinal points of the place, glowing faintly. Imoen took care not to step near any of them as she scouted ahead.

There were two doors further in, one sealed up (rune-marked, too) and the other open and ripped off its hinges. Likely that was the path the golem had taken. Imoen beckoned her followers along, and they moved on through the open doorway.

Beyond, a narrow stone path ran above a darkened vault, where massive cogs and gears turned in silence. Maybe this was part of the machinery that kept the whole sphere running. "Ya know," Imoen whispered, half-talking to her friends and half-musing to herself. "This place is far, _far_ bigger on the inside than it was on the outside."

"Well of course," Baeloth said, matter-of-fact. "It's a tesseract. _Obviously_."

"Uh. Yeah. Obviously." Whatever that meant.

The path above the gears led to the entrance of a natural cave. Imoen padded up to the opening and peaked inside.

First thing she noticed was some strange, silky gunk that covered the floor, walls, and ceiling of the cavern. Had her thinking of spider's nests. _Yick!_ There were no real webs or egg sacks, though. No eight-legged critters either. Instead, the corpse of a much stranger creature lay deep inside, with a spherical body, a long tongue that lolled out the side of its mouth, and a lot of limp, little eye-stalks atop its head.

_A beholder!_ Imoen held her breath a moment and went very, very still, even though it was pretty clear that the thing was dead (what with the smashed-in head, and the internal organs all spilled out on the ground). Even after she composed herself and got moving again, she gave the thing a wide berth.

In addition to the beholder there was another body in the cave: human-shaped and leaning at an angle. It was dressed in a puffy gray robe, and beneath the fabric it seemed to be made of stone, with an arm and a leg both broken off and scattered in pieces across the floor. The face beneath the robe's hood was riddled with cracks and flaking in places. There was a look of terror on the poor, petrified man's face.

"Dang," Imoen said. There'd be no fixing this fellow with a _stone to flesh_ scroll.

"Yeah." Kirian's teeth were clenched, eyes fixed on the body and her usual nonchalance gone. "Glad that when I got petrified I never…shattered."

Imoen looked off and ahead. There was another open hatch on the far side of the cave. "So," she said. "Seems pretty clear it was them Cowled Wizards what activated the golem. They went through here, fought this beholder, and then went that-a-way." She took a deep breath. "Guess we should…keep shadowing 'em?"

"Best that way," Kirian said. "If we stop and sit down again, I think I'll pass out."

"It _has_ been a pretty long night," Imoen had to admit. _Ugh._ How long _had_ it been since she'd last slept? And what time was it anyway, back on Toril? Probably best not to speculate. She started forward and gestured for her strange little crew to follow. ( _A pair of knights, a pair of lizards, and a pair of mismatched friends. Quite the party_ ). "Let's keep moving."

* * *

The stony floor of the cavern gave way to yet another bridge, this one made of steel and spanning a stretch of open darkness. At the far end a great, domed structure hung in the void, built from the same riveted material that Imoen had seen throughout the sphere. There were other walkways, hanging out in the darkness and entering the structure from different angles. All in all, it gave her the impression that this building was some sort of hub.

The hatch at the far end of the bridge had been ripped off its hinges. That golem sure left an obvious trail. There were even some clangs and bangs echoing out from beyond the doorway. Seemed that the golem was nearby.

"Baeloth," Imoen whispered. "Invis me, will ya? Then I'll scout ahead like usual."

The drow gave her a sour look. "All right…but _not_ because you told me to."

Once the spell was done and she'd faded from sight, Imoen hurried across the bridge and on into the building. There was a sort of foyer here, all wide and open, and now she finally got a look at the bulky monstrosity that'd been leaving the trail of destruction. Sure enough, the trio of Cowled Wizards were right there with it, along with their prisoner.

The golem itself was manish in shape, though broader than any human: twelve feet tall, gods-only-knew how heavy, and built from polished, mirror-bright steel. It'd just torn yet another hatch off its hinges while the wizards watched, and the lead mage held a multi-jointed rod in one hand that he seemed to be using to direct the thing. In his other hand he clutched an ethereal tether, tied to Valygar's wrists.

Once the hatch was cleared away, the wizard waved the rod about, and the golem moved in time, bending down and turning its body to the side before starting to ease on though the doorway. What with its height and bulk, it took a lot of doing to get the golem through the hatch. Metal screeched against metal.

A lot of doing, but _eventually_ the thing shimmied through and got to its feet, the folks in robes rushing to follow and dragging Valygar along as they did. Just as they reached the doorway, though, Valygar turned and looked over his shoulder, and Imoen could swear that his eyes focused on her invisible-self once again. There was a knowing look, then the poor man got yanked along and disappeared.

And then, to Imoen's shock, someone she hadn't noticed before disengaged from a little hidey-spot behind one of the struts in the wall and made a break for the doorway. A big, tall, bald someone, dressed in splinted armor!

_Minsc!_ Ooo _boy_ was she glad to see the big galoot in one piece!

Quick and quiet, Minsc slipped through the hatch, and Imoen found that she was racing to follow. Her mouth was open now, but she made herself hold back on shouting. There was still the golem to contend with, and the wizards too. Maybe she'd be able to catch Minsc and give him a silent tap.

Beyond the hatch was a big, round chamber. Massive pipes and tanks lined most of the walls, and there were more ringing an upraised platform that housed a lot of big, transparent tubes. Some of those tubes sat empty, while others were filled with liquid that cast off a faint green glow.

Wheels, knobs, and dials cluttered the dais, all arrayed behind a figure in black who lorded over the whole of the place. A figure Imoen remembered meeting once before. This was-

"Lavok?" the leader of the Cowled Wizards shouted ahead.

The man in black looked down. There was a long pause before he replied. "That was what they called me. Long, long ago." He snorted. "Not that I am that man anymore. Or any sort of man." He held one hand behind his back and gestured with the other. "What do they call you, little pests?"

There was a screeching sound somewhere behind Imoen, followed by a sharp clang. She whirled around and found that the hatch she'd just passed through had slammed itself shut and locked up tight. The hatch that had been _broken_ off its hinges just a moment before, magically repaired, just like that.

The leading Cowled Wizard was pointing his rod out like a weapon, and his subordinates had spell-ready hands up and raised. They fanned out a bit ahead of their master. "We are The Cowled Wizards of Amn," the leader announced. "This magical vehicle of yours appeared in the midst of _our_ city. It is our right, and our duty, to take control of any dangerous magic that appears in _our_ domain, and we intend to do exactly that."

"Take control?" There was a slight titter in Lavok's voice.

"Yes. We understand this device better than you think. How these pumps move charged liquid about, and how that liquid functions as ballast to help sink or raise this vehicle through layers of reality, all powered by the flesh and blood of greater outsiders. We _also_ understand some of the simpler devices that were left lying about." With a flick of his wrist he made the golem stomp forward, rattling the floor. "This one, for instance."

"Lying about? Yes." Lavok giggled. "Yes, I see that you found the pieces of the golem. And the book on assembling it. And that _conveniently_ placed rod." He made a cutting gesture, and the rod shattered in the cowled wizard's face, shards raining everywhere.

Shocked and bleeding, the man stumbled back, the ethereal binds vanishing from his hand as he lost concentration. Meanwhile, the steel golem made a smooth pivot, putting its back to the Master of the Sphere and its front to the intruders.

Valygar slipped backwards immediately, putting some distance between himself and his captors. The wizard-leader didn't seem to notice. He was probably a bit more concerned with the giant golem that was stomping in towards him, already swinging a fist.

The blow caught one of the underlings —a fellow in gray robes— square in the side of his head and sent him flying, aglow with some magical wards that had failed to protect him from diddly-squat. He hit the floor at a painful angle and slid a ways, limp and probably in no condition to ever get up again.

A step later the golem was on top of the lead wizard, both hands sweeping in to lift him —kicking and flailing— off the floor. There was a flash, then the wizard turned a basalt-gray color, his skin and clothes now covered by a layer of stony protection. Must've been a contingency spell.

Grating sounds echoed through the chamber. The golem squeezed and pulled.

The wizard managed to bring his hand up in a balled fist, aim it at the golem's face, and a ring on that hand lit up, the air rippling between them. Steel screamed as the golem's head twisted to the side, a cheek dented and bolts flying loose. If the golem had been a living thing the blast would have broken its neck.

But it wasn't a living thing. Even with its head hanging partway off the golem kept the pressure up and pulled on the wizard's arms, making him kick and scream; stretching his arms out full-horizontal. Next came a wet pop, and one of those arms tore off in a torrent of blood. The scream that followed was almost deafening, but brief. A couple quick slams against the floor ended it all.

The remaining cowled wizard had backed against the far wall by then, chanting out a spell. She released it: a wave of energy that stretched out to form a grid above the golem and-

Lavok gestured and the grid winked out. "No you don't," he taunted.

The woman countered fast, a streak of light flying from her hand and aimed at Lavok, but it sizzled to nothing against his magical protections. He retaliated with a lightshow of his own, lots of pretty sparks flying as wards were torn down.

All the while the golem marched forward. Once it had closed in on the lady-wizard she tried to hold it back with her staff while her other hand wove a desperate spell. Never finished it, though. Bolts of darkness streaked out from Lavok's hands and rained down, and when they struck the cowled mage her chant became a scream.

The blast dropped her onto her knees, smoke wafting up, and then the golem's foot was up in the air above her bowed head, and then it was stomping down, crushing her skull against the floor and spattering bone and brains everywhere.

The echo from that killing blow wasn't even gone when Lavok spoke directly to Imoen. "You can come out of hiding, by the way. Along with that big bodyguard of yours. I see you through your spell, and I see him between those tanks."

Imoen shivered. Those little glowing pinpricks that served as Lavok's eyes were fixed _right_ on her.

"I figured you would find your way here," the archmage continued. "It doesn't matter what doors I shut or seal. Creatures like you…like us…we go where we please. We have _agency_." Something about his continence changed, head suddenly snapping to the side, and he seemed to hiss to himself. "(Or so I did, once!)"

_Uh. Yeah._ Clutching her bow and arrow, Imoen looked over at the big steel golem, then up to the madman who commanded it, trying to think of any weapon or tool she had that could put a scratch in either of them. Nothing came to mind. _Feeling a lot of agency here. Yesir!  
_

Lavok shook himself and steadied. His eyes alighted on Valygar now. "And of _course_ I see you over there, great-great-great-grandchild. Last of the Corthalas. One who _cannot_ go where he pleases, all wrapped up in the web of fate."

Valygar just glared.

"You ran away, didn't you?" Lavok taunted. "Just like your grandfather told you too. It was the last thing he told you and your mother, wasn't it? 'If the Sphere ever returns, flee. To the other end of Faerun, if need be.'"

Valygar broke his silence. "What do you know of Feenor-?"

"I _remember!_ " Lavok hissed. "I remember every word Feenor ever told you! Or anyone." Pushing back his hood, he tapped the side of his head. "They echo through this skull; a nattering little _piece_ he left behind before I…I managed to…" He pressed both hands against his head now. Looked like he was fighting to keep control.

"I never learned what happened to my grandfather." Valygar's voice was cold and even. "He sought you out in the planes, didn't he? Confronted you? What then?"

"Confronted? Yes. He…" Again, the madman shook himself. "No! You never learned, and you never will!" He straightened, looming up on his dais. "It doesn't matter. You're here for a confrontation of your own. You were _called_." A snort. "Like some reluctant hero from a tale. Shame you didn't bring the family sword along, with which to slay this" –he tapped his chest– "villain."

"A shame. I seem to have misplaced it."

"The better for me." Lavok waved a hand. "I sense the power burning in your blood. Power you've wasted. Think I'll put it to better use."

The golem lurched into motion, turning towards Valygar and picking up speed with every step.

_Shit!_ Imoen nocked her arrow and wracked her brain. She'd no spells or potions that could put a dent in this thing. Maybe it could be tripped or something-

But while she hesitated, Valygar didn't. He bent low and sprinted _towards_ the golem, diving and sliding when the thing's arms came sweeping in. The golem stomped to a halt and swiveled around, and Valygar came up to face it, picking up the staff that the cowled lady-wizard had been carrying.

The golem tried to snatch (it was trying to catch him without doing any damage, Imoen realized), but Valygar rolled aside, popping up again to stab with the steel-shod end of the staff and connecting with the monster's jaw. A clang echoed through the chamber, and some bolts flew loose.

Lurching back, the golem had to wobble to stay on its feet, head barely hanging on. In the meantime Valygar retreated a few paces, braced himself, and then _charged_ the thing once again, his staff held parallel with the floor. Imoen's eyes went wide.

For a sec it seemed like he was going to ram the golem in the belly, but instead Valygar slammed the butt of the staff against the floor and used it to _vault_ into the air, flipping around as he flew. He rolled midair, sprung off the thing's outstretched forearms, and then he was above it's shoulders and slamming down with the staff.

He struck the golem's head with a clang and a screech, and then that head was falling in one direction, the golem's body was pitched the other way, and Valygar was sailing over them both, carried by momentum. He landed like a cat and balled up. An instant later the golem's body struck the floor with a sound that might have woken the dead.

The golem didn't move after that (seemed it couldn't function with a _fully_ severed head), but before Valygar could even stand up a ghostly hand was swooping in after him, big as a man and clearly aiming to swipe him up. Imoen opened her mouth to scream a warning, but Valygar already had his eyes on the thing. He gave it the same sort of glare he gave everything else, and before it could reach him the hand turned to harmless ghostmist and winked out.

"You _can_ use the power in your blood then," Lavok snarled from the dais. "A peculiar sort of sorcery."

Valygar stood up staight. His staff was splintered; just about broken in two. "I've learned to suppress magic. Yes."

"Frustrating." Imoen felt the archmage's gaze shift to her once again. At some point her invisibility had fallen away, thought that hardly mattered now. "You!" Lavok shouted. "Girl! Godling! You wish to leave this place, don't you?"

* * *

Kneeling in the shadow of a metal tank and hidden by Shar's obfuscating power, Viconia watched, and Viconia waited. She couldn't help but tense up when the master of the maze returned his attention to Imoen.

"You! Girl! Godling! You wish to leave this place, don't you?"

If Viconia was tense, Minsc was a coiled beast, practically quaking. Viconia squeezed his forearm, continuing to urge restraint. She knew, from what the archmage had said earlier, that the big male had already been spotted, but he had not yet been treated as a threat. That oversight could be exploited.

Better still, she was sure that Shar's veil yet protected her. When _she_ chose to act against the archamge she would have some initiative. And she would use that for all that it was worth.

"Help me restrain this willful child," the master of the maze continued, speaking to Imoen, "and I'll show you the door out of this place. Hmm…you dabble in magic too, don't you? You've seen the power of The Sphere. I can show you some of its secrets. In exchange for a little assistance. I need him alive, but I won't be upset if you hobble him with one of those arrows."

Viconia rubbed her holy disk between her fingers. She'd a _very_ good idea what Imoen's answer would be. "Minsc…" she hissed; the lowest of whispers.

"A little assistance, huh?" Imoen said, finally speaking. She slipped her arrow back into its quiver, standing up straight. "Well…sure!" Her free hand went to her enchanted bag. "Think I've got a way to help right here."

In one swift motion Imoen yanked a long object free of the bag, bent down, and sent it skidding across the floor in Valygar's direction. It was a sheathed sword, with a lacquered hilt and a slight curve to the blade. The sword that Valygar had been carrying when they had first captured him.

"Misc!" Viconia hissed again, tapping the big male on the arm. "Now! Now is the time for heroing!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tweaked Lavok's nature and backstory a bit here, in an effort to make him what I consider a more compelling villain. The way he's presented in the game never sat well with me.


	15. Master of the Maze

_ "Step quiet, child, in the lair of the lich! If he spots you, he will shift the very ground beneath your feet!"  _ –Iana Robinsong, _The Lair of the Lich_

* * *

Lavok's reaction was instant and furious. His hand shot forward and a ray of darkness leapt from his fingertip, aimed right at Imoen.

Her _levitation_ spell activated before it struck her ( _whew!_ ) and she _shot_ up for the ceiling. The ray streaked by beneath her dangling feet, then it started rising too, chasing after, popping and hissing like something alive.

She spread her feet to avoid it. Then stretched her legs. Then she was doing a full split while she willed herself up-up- _up_ as fast as the magic could carry her! Her heart went into her throat, and she could just about _feel_ the crinkly-awful-sizzleyness of the beam _right there_ under her crotch while she desperately tried to fly away. (That was _not_ a good place to get zapped by a death ray! No way! Nosir!)

The ray lost cohesion, then puttered out. ( _Whoo-hoo!_ ) 

Imoen's shoulders brushed the ceiling and she flattened against it. Hopefully that'd make her a smaller target.

Lavok seemed distracted by other things now, anyways. His attention had shifted to Valygar, who was charging for the stairs as fast as he could, his sword drawn in one hand and his scabbard clutched like a club in the other, shouting the wizard's name all the while. 

Taking advantage of her current lack of gravity, Imoen flipped over and planted her feet against the ceiling, a little _spider climbing_ magic affixing her there. Next, she loaded an arrow, drew back hard, and took a no-hesitation shot at the evil wizard while he wasn't looking. Some sort of dark mist seemed to sense the arrow coming, rising up like a protective shroud, and when the broadhead hit it just bounced off and clattered away. Figured. Things just couldn't be that easy. 

Valygar was flying up the steps now, but the dark mist swept out to meet him, blocking the path and then breaking off into human-shaped bits. Undead shadows, by the look of ‘em. They sprang forward soon as they materialized, clawing and forcing the big guy to slide around and perform some defensive swings.

Meantime, Lavok shouted out a word of power that rang off the walls, calling down a blast of ruby light. It struck Valygar full on, and the poor sod staggered back, giving the shadow-creatures room to swarm. One alighted on his back. Another clung to his arm. Claws snatched, and dug in deep.

Those shadows were also giving Imoen ample targets, though, and she took full advantage. Her first shot sent a burning shaft right through one of ‘em’s torso, the hole sizzling and expanding out right-quick. The next fire-arrow cut through another creature’s arm, at the joint, and sent the entire limb spinning off and away.

And now Minsc was rushing in to join the party, his boots eating up the distance between him and the platform. In a blink he’d reached the foot of the stair, howling like a madman and hefting up his sword. A right big, dramatic entrance. Got Lavok’s full attention.

Not a good thing. The archmage unleashed his next spell, and it was aimed right at Minc! Some sort of dusty waver of necromancy, looked like, which passed across the big fellow and made him go all wobbly, every muscle and vein stretching and straining.

Imoen winced, and for about a half-of-a-quarter-of-an-instant she was genuinely worried about the big guy, but then Minsc lumbered on through and picked up speed, bounding up the steps. With a roar he swung his sword and cut one of the shadow-critters in half, the separate ends of it falling away from Valygar but leaving him unscathed. For his next trick, Minsc delivered a stab that whistled _just_ past Valygar’s cheek, skewering one of the shadows that’d been hanging off his back.

More darkness flared, up there on the crowded dais. More summoned _things_ slithered into existence and stretched their shadow-claws, and many of these newcomers had wings and horns to boot. Shadow demons. Lavok was flooding the place with some _nasty_ sword-and-arrow-fodder.

Imoen didn’t see much choice but to shoot at ‘em, though, so she plucked and loosed. Plucked and loosed. Nothing to do but make the arrows rain down and hope for the best. 

A burning shaft struck one of the shadow-demon-things, and the flames just snuffed out, not making a damned bit of difference. Her next shot hit the same creature, but still didn’t faze it.

And all the while Lavok was standing back behind his shield of shadow-mist, impervious and smug. Bit of an impasse, here. And his next spell might-

There was a blast of force from behind Lavok, making his shield billow and flutter like it’d been struck by a heavy gust. A moment of tension and stretching followed, then the mantle just sort of puffed out and broke into tatters. Lavok’s head started turning, the look on his face all disdainful.

Were his protections gone now? One way to find out! 

Imoen aimed and shot straight at the wizard’s chest, and the arrow struck true and bit deep, knocking him back. _Hells yeah!_ She snatched at her quiver and drew another arrow.

Lavok’s injury would have dropped a normal man, but he obviously wasn’t one of those. Looked more like he was pissed than anything else. He aimed an open palm at Imoen, fast as a cat, and some sort of crackling darkness welled up there. A flick of his wrist sent it flying.

Imoen tossed her arrow and willed her feet to unstick from the ceiling. She dropped like a rock and the bolt of blackness zipped in just above. There was an explosive _whoosh_ , and something dust-dry and cold tickled her toes, forcing her to tuck in and make herself a ball.

The floor rushed up, the world spun, then lurched, wobbled, and then she was right-side-up and suspended in the air, thanks to her _levitation_ magic. Her spell had kept her from cracking her skull on the floor. Couldn't stop the blood from pounding in her temples, though. Total head-rush!

Black sparks rained down. One of 'em landed on her shoulder and started smoldering, and when she tried to pat it out it stung her hand something fierce. Was a cold sort of a burn.

A flash or red light up on the dais caught Imoen's eye. Lavok was stumbling forward now, smoke wafting up from his back, and behind him stood a cloaked figure, her hand outstretched and glowing. Viconia. So nice of her to join this party too!

Lavok had taken an arrow to chest and a full _harm_ -touch to the back, but he still managed to stand up straight, stretching out his arms to deliver yet _another_ spell. Something between an incantation and a furious roar left his lips as crackling blackfire gathered on his palms, then it lit up the entire dais in a starburst.

The blast struck everything nearby. Minsc and the shadow fiend he'd been wrestling with were both thrown down the steps, bouncing and sending up smoke. Viconioa went flying backwards into a control panel. What was left of the summoned shadows were incinerated.

The only one who didn't get knocked over or burnt was Valygar. He faced the blast head-on, calm as you please, and it just seemed to wash over him. When it had passed he stomped forward, his sword turned over to a stabbing position, then he topped the dais and lunged across in one smooth motion. His blade went clean through Lavok’s chest.

For a moment they both just stood there, shoulders about touching. Bloody steel poked out of Lavok’s back, his hands still raised and trembling, mouth moving like he was trying to shout out one last spell…

…but he didn't. Instead he slumped down and his palms dropped and all the fight deflated out of him and that seemed to be that. _Whew!_

Lavok’s knees hit the floor, then his head tipped back, mouth open wide as he shuddered. Death throes, looked like. Then it looked like a bit more than that. Intense convulsions. His robes shook. Amber light flashed bright in his eyes, and a shimmer ran across the whole of him, jaw slack almost to the point of being unhinged.

Then his head went back and he _disgorged_ a stream of crackling darkness.

Valygar stumbled away, barely keeping upright as the cloud whipped past him and spiraled up to the ceiling. It flattened and congealed up there, taking on a human shape: a wraith; with burning, amber eyes. Down below, Lavok’s former body went limp, all the glow and luster gone from him.

The wraith spoke. Its voice reverberated through the whole sphere. "This is not over! I have stolen a piece of Orcus —grafted it to my very spirit— and I can never die!"

There were clanging sounds all throughout the chamber. Every door unlocked and swung open at once.

"Find me out in the Abyss!" the wraith shouted. "If you wish to end this!" A hum ran through the sphere, winding down and then going silent. All the machinery had died. The lights dimmed. "I'll be out there. Out where Feenor tried to face me, and failed to break the cycle. Out where this all began."

Then the wraith’s form blurred, streaking across the ceiling and then down and through an open door. Silence hung in its wake, while the lights of the glowlamps and instruments faded completely, plunging everything into darkness.

* * *

Moments later cantrip-light entered the room, bobbing above Kirian and Baeloth's heads as they moved in towards the spot where Imoen was still hovering. She noticed some coughing and movement up on the dais then, and her eyes widened when she realized that Lavok was still kneeling there. Seemed he was still alive, despite the fact that there was a sword stuck through his chest and his spirit had just made a dramatic exit. 

Valygar had moved closer to the hobbled man, holding onto the sword and bending down. Some murmured words passed between them, though Imoen was too far away to pick up on what was said.

Fingering an arrow, she dropped to the floor, then started for the steps. Minsc sat near the bottom, singed a bit but seemingly alert. When Imoen got close he stood up and slipped in beside her.

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Valygar looked almost…reverent, huddled there over the man he'd just impaled a few moments ago. He whispered something to Lavok, who croaked out some sort of response. 

Once Imoen had climbed a few more steps she caught Valygar's next words clearly: "I will, grandfather," he said, gently guiding Lavok's body down so that he lay on his side. Gripping a shoulder now, he tensed, and then yanked the sword free. 

There were no shudders or cries of pain. Seemed that Lavok (or…the shell that he'd been wearing) was now truly and fully dead.

When Valygar rose and turned, his face was grim. Maybe grimmer than Imoen had ever seen before, which, considering how grim he always looked, was quite the feat.

* * *

The constant thrum running through the sphere hadn't been something that Imoen had noticed. Not until it all fell silent. The place was quiet as a tomb now: the gears all stilled and the fluids stagnant in their tubes.

Dark as a tomb, too. They had to explore by cantrip-light.

All that quiet dark made this new chamber seem especially eerie. It was _vast_ (the light barely lit a fraction of it), and dominated by deep, murky waters at the bottom. Above the pool hung a latticework of metal scaffolding and machinery, spread out around a strange device. 

Golems stood at regular intervals on the outer ring, all still and lifeless. Maybe they were meant to guard the machine, when the place was powered.

_ Hm.  _ 'Machine' was maybe not the best term for this thing. Sure, there were a lot of gizmos, doodads, antennae, and transparent tanks spread around it, but the center actually seemed to be organic. Looked like a circular mass of dead, calcified flesh; all gnarled and bumpy.

Baeloth was the first to reach it, and he crouched to examine a panel. He poked a dial, then tapped at a switch. Nothing happened.

"I pray to Shar that you _understand_ whatever it is that you are prodding!" Viconia hissed. "If these golems come to life-"

"No need to fret," Baeloth purred back. "There appears to be no power here. It's just a lifeless lump. A disappointingly dead device." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little crystal, bringing it up to his eye. "Hm." He swiveled, examining more of the place through his strange little lens. "Well, there's a _little_ leftover power. A faint echo…"

"This thing’s supposed to be powered by…the 'heart of a greater outsider,' right?" Imoen asked.

"Oh yes! Before the last plane shift, I'll wager this thing was pulsing with power, all fueled-up with the hearts of demons!" Continuing to look through his crystal, Baeloth turned to a slanted tube and tapped it with his finger. "You'd slide the bits of minced demon-heart into this feeder, you see-"

"An evil device," Valygar muttered.

"Exceedingly evil!" Baeloth agreed. "Delightfully so! At full power, this thing would have been _seething_ with chaos and malevolence. Enough that, when focused and amplified through these lenses, it could bend and fold the very rules of reality!" He let out a wistful sigh. "Ah, what a sight it must have been. There's but a trace of the demonic energies simmering now, only visible through this _gem of seeing._ Quite a gnarled and twisted thing." Turning to the party, he held out his little crystal. "Does anyone wish to look?"

"We'll take your word for it," Imoen said. "So uh…that means we need a demon's heart? And Lavok said something about going out into the Abyss, when he opened all the doors and zipped off. Sooo…that's probably the plane that we're in right now?”

"Indeed! We’d have to be on some layer of the Abyss. It's where he draws his power from."

"And the Abyss is also where demons tend to uh…live? I guess? So we should be able to…harvest what we need for the engine somewhere outside?"

"Presumably, yes."

"Maybe we can even find it _right_ outside the door, then? We take a little hunting trip outside, beat a quick retreat soon as we’re done, activate the sphere, and then we can fly ourselves home and be through with this mess?"

"If you want to be _boring_ , I suppose we could follow that plan. (And miss out on a chance to explore this strange and twisted realm. Such a shame). Of course, we'll still need one more component to activate this sphere, if you really wish to use it like a ship."

"Oh? And what's that?"

Without warning Baeloth snatched Valygar by the wrist and yanked him forward, pressing the other man's hand against a nearby panel. The result was instantaneous: lights flared and expanded, illuminating every dial and tube and rod and strut. Glowlamps came to life. Machinery whirred and hummed.

Black mist rose up from the center of the machine, curling into shapes that resembled bones, claws, and horns. Maybe that was the 'trace of demonic energy' that Baeloth had been talking about. Certainly looked all gnarled and twisted-like. At the same time the golems also came to life, groaning as they lurched to face the intruders with fire in their eyes.

Valygar managed to rip his hand away before anything else happened, and the noises and lights all sputtered out and died. He whirled to face Baeloth, who'd taken a few steps backwards. "What was that?!" he demanded.

"Nothing harmful," Baeloth responded, both hands raised and a big old grin plastered on his face. "I was just testing a theory. It seems that _you're_ the component that we need to make all of these delightful devices function. Once we have fuel, it will be your hands that work the dials. Must admit I'm envious. You have dominion over this most marvelous of machines! The mischief you might make with it! If you're…interested in that sort of thing."

Valygar glared at him a moment, then looked off. "You mean my blood holds dominion over it. Blood that Lavok wants for his own." He scowled. "Blood that he'll use to live out another stolen lifetime, if he can take it."

"Hm. I suppose."

"And he's waiting for me out there." Taking a deep breath, Valygar gripped the hilt of his sword. "I swore that I would end this curse on my family. It seems that-"

"Absolutely not!" Viconia snapped, hand outstretched as she advanced on Valygar. She gave Imoen a sidelong glance. "He thinks of suicide! We cannot allow it. He is needed."

"Hey now!" Imoen raised her hands. "Nobody's going to-"

"We must restrain him," Viconia insisted, pointing with her palm.

"No!" Imoen shouted, shifting to interpose herself between them. "We're going to _allow_ him to do whatever he wants." She looked to Valygar. "It was a damned-rotten thing to chain him up from the start, just 'cause some conniving wizard insisted. We came here to rectify that."

"If he dies," Viconia growled, "we will be marooned."

"Not necessarily," Baeloth chimed in. "With a little necromancy we may be able to-"

"Absolutely not!" Imoen shouted. Putting her back to the pair of drow, she faced the man himself. "Hey Valygar! It’s pretty annoying when people talk all _around_ you instead of to you, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” he agreed.

“So I’m thinking: you've sworn to end your family curse and all that, right? Seems like we're already halfway done. We've got Lavok on the run, and you've got your magical family sword what's destined to slay him and everything! Right?"

When Valygar just gave her a pondering look, she kept on: "Lavok's shed his corporeal form and gone off into the Abyss. Seems like he's made himself some sort of demon-thing now. And you know what they say: you slay a demon on its home plane, and you've slain it for good. So now we've just got to go out there and have ourselves one more big, bad, epic-throw-down of a battle with Mr. Evil Sneering Wraith-Man himself, and then we've won! It'll be a fight bards'll sing about for ages! Whatta ya say?"

Valygar stayed quiet a moment longer, to the point where it felt a little awkward, then he drew in a breath. "I will not maroon you," he said. "If that’s what you’re asking. We will all return to Toril. Much as I have…misgivings about giving Lavok an opportunity out there."

“He could stay behind…” Kirian suggested.

“Absolutely not!” the female lizardfolk objected. “We do not divide our forces. That is something an experienced predator will take advantage of.”

“Alright, alright. Guess we all should prepare for a demon hunt, then.” Turning her head, she muttered under her breath: “(Snippy lizard-bitch).”

A little while later, when they were climbing back up the stairs and out of the engine room, Valygar slipped in beside Imoen, pitching his voice low. "You realize," he whispered, tapping the pommel of his weapon, "that this is just an enchanted sword, right? It has no prophesized destiny."

"Nope," Imeon replied. "I don't realize that at all. In fact, I refuse to."

* * *

It came as a relief when the trees _finally_ gave way to open fields, and Edwin found himself ducking out and into the light. The _Tradeway_ was in sight now, just down the hill, its straight and even paving cutting through the fields and hillocks. It looked delightfully solid and dry: a welcome change after all of the tedious hours he had spent slogging through the mud.

There would be no more of that, today. No more irritating vines conspiring to trip him, either. No more grasping branches as well, and no more sticky spider’s webs hanging across his path. Civilization (or at least what passed for it out in these backwards lands) was finally in sight! And if he never again set foot within a forest (or worse: a _swamp_ ), well, that would be just fine.

The morning air was pleasantly crisp, and a stiff breeze rustled through the wild grasses as they followed the trail down to the highway-proper. As usual, the girl marched in the lead, setting a brisk pace, and her obedient pup-of-a-man followed close at her heel.

"Once we sort this mess out with the Shadow Thieves and get Alora back," Ashura was saying, "I guess the next step will be chartering a ship. We still have those star charts. A reliable crew should be able to read them. Take you back to your island."

The wolf-boy nodded. "Another sea's journey," he said, with little enthusiasm. He glanced back towards the forest. "And a journey taken alone this time. Among strangers."

"Sorry." There was an awkward silence. A few dozen paces later, Ashura spoke up again: "I know you've never gone anywhere without your sister before, but I'm sure-"

"Do not coddle him!" Edwin snapped. "All he needs do now is cross a tiny tract of water, and his mission will be complete. About time he actually manned up and did _something_ , I say. His sister has won every victory thus far."

Durlyle's posture straightened a bit. Perhaps the insult had done gotten through his dense head. "I will lead my people to this place," he stated. "As I have sworn."

"Good then. I'm sure this land will be teaming with werewolves within a year's time." Edwin had his doubts, of course. More likely this idiot boy, or perhaps all of his idiot people, would soon wind up at the bottom of the sea.

The boy seemed to miss his sarcasm, though. "We will only dwell in the deepest woods. The lands watched over by my sister and her new…circle. There, we will hunt in peace."

"Sounds like a plan," Ashura said absently.

Soon, the walls of Trademeet loomed ahead of them. Up on their little basket-towers, the guards were watching the road. Colorful tents rested in the shadow of the western wall, and over on the eastern side, obscured by trees, stood some roughhewn scaffolding.

As they approached, something seemed to draw Ashura's attention, and her pace quickened. She took a sharp right, marching off the road and towards the eastern wall.

The scaffolding had been here the last time they'd passed by the gate, as Edwin recalled, and its purpose had been clear then, what with the sturdy beam above, and the hinges on the trap below. There had been no nooses dangling from the gallows, then.

One hung there now, fitted tight about the neck of a swaying corpse. A woman's body, he noted, dressed in ragged burlap, with her hands tied behind her back. The executioners had placed a wooden placard over her chest, and two words were painted there, in clear Amnish script:

_ 'Shadow Thief.' _

"Damnit," Ashura gritted out through clenched teeth.

_ Damnit indeed.  _ Edwin's lips twitched as he took in the sight. That…that was definitely their Shadow Thief contact hanging up there. What had her name been? Iona?

Edwin’s mouth opened, and he drew in a breath, but no words came out. He clenched his fists.

_ '…the life of your halfling will be forfeit.'  _

_ Blast!  _ As Edwin recalled, the woman had been saying something about needing to enter this city with caution, just before the mountain cat had pounced on her. Mentioning that she was a _wanted criminal_ in Trademeet would have been helpful! The sort of thing you should say early on!

Huffing, he began to pace.

_ Blast and double-blast!  _ The Shadow Thieves had acted so brazenly inside Athkatla, that he had just assumed that they ruled all of Amn with impunity. They had certainly claimed as much. Over-boasting, he realized now. They were obviously not so invulnerable here on the border, in a city governed by a paladin. Perhaps they had not expected such a bold move from Lord Coprith-

Edwin shook himself. None of this speculation about Amn’s internal politics mattered now. Words finally came to him. "Everyone!" he snapped. "Hold hands!"

"Wha-?" Ashura began, but Edwin was in no mood to explain. He seized her hand, then gripped Durlyle by the wrist, barking out a spell:

" _Siltir varak – keev._ "

Everything rippled, then the world turned brown and blank. For a moment it felt like they were falling, though Edwin knew better. They were traveling in a manner that human senses were unable to process. That –and the fact that human sight could not perceive what lay before it in this extra-dimensional space– was what usually caused teleportation sickness.

Edwin was inured to that, of course. His feet landed on fluffy carpet and he remained steady, while his companions reeled and wobbled. All around them the brown resolved into gaudy wall-hangings and decorative wicker-work. This was the shared space of their old suite, in the _Sea's Bounty_ festhall.

Ashura stumbled back against a wall, and Durlyle immediately slumped and groaned.

Edwin gave the boy space to keel over fully and vomit, turning away and beginning to pace once again. "We will march upon the guildhall," he growled as he went, "and we will _storm_ the place! That is what we _should_ have done the moment the halfling was stolen! Instead we've been played for fools! Jumping through hoops for this band of thieves! And now our forces are diminished!"

He reached a wall, turned, and paced the other way. "(Diminished greatly, without the female wolf. Bah! But we are still a force to be reckoned with! We've a Bhaalspawn, _one_ remaining werewolf, and my magics are greater than any that the thieves might wield.)"

Another swivel, and another pace. "(Still, there will be all manner of hidden dangers, in a den like theirs. A lair of spies and thieves. Planning our attack would be prudent, though we might not have the time for that now)."

_ Pace _ .

"(Blast it! Ironically, storming the lair would be far easier if we still had the little thief to lead the way. She was the only one in our _sorry_ little band with a knack for sussing out traps and unseen pitfalls)."

_ Pace _ .

"(I could summon something with keen senses, though it would make a poor substitute for a proper delver of-)"

"Hey now," a voice interrupted. It sounded nasal, low to the floor, and a bit sleepy. "If you really want me to lead you somewhere, I'd be happy to help!"

Edwin whirled. Inside a nearby doorframe leaned Alora, dressed in a violet nightgown and stifling a yawn. It seemed that all of his pacing, shouting, and grumbling had woken her up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to fellow author Theodur for the idea that a reanimated Valygar might be used to control the Planar Sphere. It seemed like something that would cross Baeloth’s mind.


End file.
